


One Word Prompts - Whitebeard Crew

by Chromi



Category: One Piece
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Crew as Family, Family, Family Dynamics, Fluff, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, One Shot Collection, One Word Prompts, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating Changes With Chapter, Rating May Change, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sex, Slice of Life, Swearing, Sweet, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Majority are Gen or Teen-rated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2020-05-16 15:46:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 59,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19321228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chromi/pseuds/Chromi
Summary: A collection of fics for one word prompts, all about the Whitebeard crew and their shenanigans with Ace, Marco, and Thatch being the main focus, of course!May feature different pairings or none at all and range from a couple of hundred words to a couple of thousand. Please note that E- and M-rated chapters are marked as such, but the majority of chapters are G- or T-rated.





	1. Challenge

“You’re commander of the first division, aren’t you?”

Marco looked over his shoulder at the demanding voice behind him. “I am,” he said evenly, “well spotted.”

“You’re Whitebeard’s first mate?”

“Yes.”

The anger that radiated from the new boy, the boy who called himself Fire Fist Ace, was palpable. His freckled face was twisted into a mask of hate, his fists balled and his stance tense, ready to fight. Marco raised an eyebrow and turned to face him properly, noticing the crowd that was beginning to draw around them; no one ever had the balls to challenge Marco in a proper fight, so this was well worth watching.

“Then that means you’re the strongest on board this godforsaken ship after him, right?” Ace spat, not taking his eyes off Marco’s bored expression. “Whitebeard’s not around today, so you’ll have to do. If I can kill you then that’ll prove to him that he’s next, that I can take him. Show me what you’ve got, old man.”

Marco felt more than heard Thatch sniggering at the insult somewhere in the crowd.

It was true; Whitebeard had left the Moby Dick for the day to trade with another crew a few miles away in neutral territory, opting to take two of his other commanders with him for the journey and leaving Marco in charge in his absence. Marco assumed this particular delegation of duty from Pops had more to do with keeping this feral child in line than ordering the crew around for a day.

“Don’t waste my time, kid,” Marco said, his tone a bored drawl, as Ace looked mutinous at the term of address. “You’ll only end up in the ocean again if you try it. Get it into your head already that you can’t take any of us on.”

That did it.

Ace’s fists blazed and flames erupted from his arms, shoulders, back, and legs in rage, his display of power impressive to watch but ultimately nothing more than a peacock strutting its feathers. The onlookers scrabbled to start placing bets on how many seconds it took for Marco to launch the kid over the side of the ship.

Ace flew at him in a whirl of fire, teeth bared in a snarl as he threw a fiery punch and missed, Marco simply dodging to the left and circling round the teenager on fast, light feet. Ace followed his movement and swung round, fire blasting at where Marco should have been, but he was gone again, ducking and bobbing out of the way and then spiralling out of reach gracefully as a fireball was shot at his head.

“Fight back!” Ace shouted, furious that Marco was essentially dancing around him with ease and was _smirking_ while doing so. “C’mon, you fucking coward, hit me back!”

“No, I don’t think I will, thanks,” came the sarcastic reply, prompting Ace to hurl more fireballs at the commander and miss once again. Marco was thankful for the onlooking crews’ good sense to move out of the way to avoid those projectiles each time. Ace ran after him, fists swinging wildly in increasing fury and desperation to land a hit, Marco dancing backwards just out of reach each time in a silent goad.

But his ship, his home, would be in danger if Ace really worked himself up into a rage and went wild with his fire. As much as he would have liked to lead the boy in a maddening never-ending dance that he would never keep up with, he couldn’t run the risk of anything serious happening.

Marco was in Ace’s face in an instant, close enough to feel the searing heat of his power, to be well within range of a fatal blow to the body from a fiery punch. But before Ace could react to this sudden change in tactics, Marco’s own right hand ignited into blue flames, catching Ace’s left fist and stopping it mid-motion. The blue flames flashed and tangled with Ace’s own fire, smothering it and putting it out as if it were as easy as blowing out a candle at the end of a night.

“Give it up,” Marco warned, his voice quiet yet commanding, cobalt blue eyes meeting the darkest of walnut brown as Ace stared at him in open bewilderment, the rage completely gone for the moment. “You may well be a super-powered rookie, but you’re no match for me, kid. Your movements are slow, your patterns are obvious, and your fire can’t hope to hurt me.”

And to prove his point, the cool flames enveloped Marco’s whole upper torso in a neat blaze of startling cyan and gold, protecting him from the orange inferno surrounding them. Ace showed every sign of wanting to touch the flames, completely bemused by the fact that his own really weren’t hurting the commander and were indeed being extinguished further and further up his own arm the longer Marco kept a hold of his fist, but then Marco’s left blue-flamed hand encircled his throat and gripped him tight, choking him and refocusing his attention where it _really_ needed to be.

“Now, do you want to be beaten to within an inch of your life here on the deck with everyone watching, or would you rather be flung into the sea and drown a slow death?” Marco grinned an evil, haunting grin that made the hairs on the back of Ace’s neck stand on end. “I’ll be nice and give you a choice this time.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Ace managed to gasp, trying to wriggle free from the iron grip around his airway but failing spectacularly.

“Into the sea it is, then.”

It took less than a heartbeat for Marco to drag the boy to the side of the ship and bodily toss him over, laughing at the way Ace screamed violent profanities at him all the way down.

The rest of the crew exploded into laughter and cheers for their first mate, money swapping hands and thighs slapped in glee as they started yelling for someone to volunteer to get naked and go after the Fire Fist.

“It’s alright,” Marco called to them, his arms and legs already transformed into his phoenix form as he leapt onto the side of the ship, “it’s my fault this time. I’ll go.”

He transformed fully in a spectacular flash of cyan, plummeting down the side of the Moby Dick and plucking Ace out of the sea below like a helpless fish snatched up by a hungry gull. The sea water threatened to revert his transformation and render his body as useless as Ace’s had been, but luckily the boy hadn’t been deep down enough for his legs to be submerged for long.

Ace was dropped unceremoniously back on deck a few seconds later, trembling and retching up sea water to the general noise the crew was still making. Marco landed gracefully beside him in a flurry of flaming wings, his talons scraping on the wood and making Ace goggle up at him. As he transformed back and bent to offer a hand to the poor boy he had just thrown overboard, Ace gaped at him.

“You can turn into a bird, too?!” He yelled, earning more laughter from the onlookers. “What the fuck?! What kind of insane devil fruit did you eat?!”

Marco simply laughed and pulled his hand away as Ace flailed to hit him. This kid was _fun_.

 

 


	2. Regret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during the time Ace was held in Impel Down. I enjoy hurting myself, apparently.

Ace had always prided himself on his one single iron-clad rule in life: live with no regrets. He had never regretted anything ever since childhood, living precisely as he wished and always doing what he believed was right. 

But this... this, he felt keenly. This was the cold sting of regret, the harsh slap to the face of a fuck-up, and he knew there was no coming back from this, this  _mistake_ , this arrogance, that had driven him to jump onto his Striker and flame away from his anguished crew.

Was losing one beloved brother not enough? Was discovering Thatch dead in a pool of his own blood not enough of a loss for his crew to bear? Watching him sail away must have been salt to an open wound for them, for those who stood hanging over the side of the ship, grabbing at the air fruitlessly as he had left. It was his fault that they were now about to lose someone else they loved and he regretted running after Teach with his entire being.

He had known it would not end in his favor. The fruit Thatch had found, the Yami-Yami fruit, was what Teach had concealed himself for for 20 years. If it was worth that length of deception, then it had to be seriously powerful. He would not be able to measure up, and he had known it deep within his soul. Pops had known it. His crew had known it.

Marco had known, too.

He should have  _listened_ to Marco, he should have stopped and thought for one single, goddamn second about  _why_ he and Pops had been so insistent, so terrified when he had furiously declared he was going to hunt down Teach and avenge his brother. Pops never,  _ever_ backed down from something unless he absolutely _had_ to. Marco would have never stopped a crew member from utterly annihilating someone for killing one of their own. Ace knew he should have known that they would not have tried to stop him if there hadn't been a damn good reason to.

He wanted to go home so badly.

He ached to go home and apologise profusely, to own up and admit to being a hot-headed imbecile and to accept any punishment that Whitebeard deemed fit. He wanted his brothers, his father, his love, his life, his home, his future. He wanted Thatch back.

He wanted Teach dead.

There was no shame in admitting he had made the wrong decision. The shame lay in not knowing when to turn back and face his mistake.

The regret bubbled over and slid down his cheeks in two salty trails.

 

 


	3. Tradition

“Aw, c’mon Ace, come and join us!”

“No! You all look ridiculous! I’d rather be dead than wearing one of those!”

“Says the guy who unironically wears a vivid orange cowboy hat…”

“Says the guy who unironically got his own name tattooed on himself.”

“Heh, nice one, Haruta.”

Ace was mortified. Rightfully so, too, he thought. Did they have any idea just how ridiculous they all looked, sitting at the table with flimsy, brightly colored paper hats perched on their heads and gaudy, hideous sweaters on? Even Whitebeard was sporting both, his sweater being perhaps the most terrible of all in neon green with a badly depicted reindeer splashed over the chest; Ace noted that it’s bulbous red nose lit up and twinkled, too.

“It’s fun!” Thatch beamed, patting the seat next to himself expectantly. “We always do this on the last day of the year. It’s a tradition from Pops’ home island. You’re not a proper member of the crew until you slip into one of these babies.”

Ace wrinkled his nose in disgust as Izou whipped out another horrible sweater from under the table. “I made you one already,” he said happily, brandishing the ugly blue sweater with the words ‘ding dong merrily on high’ stitched across it in red. “Blue will go lovely with your complexion.”

“So that’s why you assaulted me with the tape measurer,” Ace realised as Izou nodded.

“And look,” Marco said, looking utterly stupid in a bobbly brown sweater adorned with comical penguins, “we even saved you an orange paper hat so you won’t miss your regular embarrassment.”

“You can’t seriously expect me to be ashamed of my fashion sense when you’re all sat there looking like _that_.”

“Now, now, my sons,” Whitebeard rumbled gently, cutting off Marco’s retort, “this is a happy occasion and one we have always enjoyed together. If Ace doesn’t want to join in with the dress code then I will understand, but I will also hope,” he grinned fondly at Ace with a twinkle in his eye, “that he will still participate in this wonderful feast with us.”

Ace had to admit, the spread looked incredible. Huge turkeys and an enormous slab of beef sat ready for carving, dishes upon dishes of potatoes in all kinds of forms, veg that Ace recognised and veg that he didn’t, sausages wrapped in bacon, sauces of all kinds, boats of gravy at strategic intervals throughout the food… His stomach groaned as he took it all in, finally looking away from the insulting sweaters that the commanders all donned.

“Well,” Ace said feebly over the sounds of his body betraying him, “it’d be a shame to let it go to waste, wouldn’t it?”

“Sit down, you little misery,” Thatch laughed and thumped the seat next to himself again, and this time Ace obliged.

By the end of the meal - and after a significant amount of alcohol consumed - Ace had been stuffed into both the sweater and the paper hat in a combined effort from Izou and Thatch, and he had to admit they weren’t actually all that bad once on. He participated in drunkenly singing along with the others to songs he barely knew, falling asleep into his fifth plate of delicious food and then lamenting the demise of his silly paper hat upon waking a few minutes later with potato and gravy covering his face, much to everyone’s utmost amusement.

Maybe this was a tradition he could get on board with, after all.


	4. Fulfilled

“I do decree, my Lord, that I have fulfilled my side of the arrangement. I trust you find it to be most satisfactory?”

“Indeed, my good man, most favorably! Yes, stupendous work indeed. Now, will you partake in a swift beverage _avec moi_ in my private chambers before you depart for lands yonder?”

“Goodness gracious, my Lord, if you do so wish to-”

Ace slapped down the newspaper he had been trying to read with an annoyed huff, glaring at Thatch and Haruta as they continued with their ridiculous exchange. They had been behaving like this on and off ever since the twelfth division had returned from a long, tedious job onto a nearby island to procure supplies from the locals who were particularly hostile towards pirates. They would have ideally missed the island completely and stopped in at the next on their course, but when it became apparent that the medical bays had officially run out of plasma and were dangerously low on bottled oxygen, they had made haste at once.

“Good sir!” Thatch trilled, a hand to his heart in mock horror at Ace’s movement. “Are you displeased with my dealings? Doth thou bite your thumb at me, sir?”

“Look,” Ace said, not amused by Thatch’s quote, “I’m glad that Haruta managed to get a replacement sword for you, I really am, but you’ve kept this up for three days now and-”

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks!” Haruta cried, swooning sideways comically as Thatch fanned at his face with his palm. “However will his Lordship manage if we are to continue as thus?”

Ace’s frown deepened as Haruta and Thatch exploded into laughter.

“Moving swiftly on, Sir Haruta,” Thatch continued with his charade, rubbing at his temple with his middle finger and thus swearing discretely at Ace, “that offer still stands, you know! I shall fulfil my side of the bargain also, yes - I have the most delectable wine in my study that I _so_ hope will meet your fancy; would you care to accompany me to collect it? We can leave the tiresome child here to read his worldly news in peace.”

“What a truly marvelous idea!” called a new voice from the doorway of the room as Ace raised an ashtray to fling at Thatch’s head. The three spun around in their seats to see Marco with a hand on his hip and an amused smile on his lips. “Breathtaking, in fact! I pray that thee would allow me to party with you good sirs in soaking your minds with liquor and quality prattle?”

“Do any of you even know what you’re actually saying?” Ace asked loudly as Thatch cheered Marco on, encouraging him to join in this ridiculous game they were playing. “And I’d expect better of you, Marco.”

“’Tis a fine specimen, no?” Thatch spoke over Ace, drawing his new sword from its sheath and showing it off proudly. “Has Sir Haruta not outdone himself, Sir Marco?”

“My Lord is too kind,” Haruta gasped, fingers laid to his jawline in mock bashfulness. “Truly, I am being most spoiled here with good praise.”

“Come, my fine men,” Thatch said, standing abruptly and sheathing the sword again, “let us depart from under this blackened cloud of dank misery this wretched boy doth cast, and partake in indulging in the finest of wines!”

Ace shook open his paper again as the three rose noisily, chairs clattering against the wooden floor as they left the room. Finally, a break from the nonsense. He wasn’t against Thatch and Haruta’s silly game and had actually found it pretty fun on the first day, but after listening to them constantly carry on like that it had finally got to him.

A hand on his shoulder caused him to look up into blue eyes crinkled with a smile.

“Don’t feel you can’t join us,” Marco said quietly as Haruta exclaimed at Thatch loudly in the doorway. “I admit they’re a bit much, but they’ll get bored of it soon enough. They just need something to distract them.”

Ace smiled up at the blond. “Thanks, but I think I’ll leave them to it,” he said, no trace of irritation in his voice now. “But maybe have a word with Pops about sending Thatch off somewhere for a few days. He’s itching to play with his new toy.”

“Marco, my sweet summer child,” Thatch called in a falsetto, waving to gain his friend’s attention, “art thou accompanying us or no?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to write something silly.
> 
> To answer Ace's question: no, none of them actually have the slightest clue as to whether or not they are making any sense. They just want to sound fancy ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	5. Family

There had only ever been one thing that Edward Newgate wanted. Something that he had longed for with his very soul. Something that he had never had, and something that he knew to be more important than any amount of gold or silver.

_“What does a pirate want for if not riches?”_

_“A family.”_

And he had got just that.

Edward Newgate settled deeper into his chair, the sun warming him as he and many of the crew watched their newest recruit arm wrestling one of their allies to the cheers and screams of the onlooking bet-holders.

It was good that they could have moments like this to catch up on old brotherly bonds with their allies, for Edward to see his extended crew of sons again and feel his heart swell with love for each and every one of them. Oh, he was proud of his boys. So proud.

Edward did not feel the allure of the One Piece, nor did he want the title of Pirate King. As far as he was concerned that title was to be won by someone of a new era, not by a man left clinging to a world that his sons would soon inherit for themselves. He wanted no part in the going ons of the other Yonko, or the government, or indeed anyone who was out to harm his family.

Edward felt old and tired down to his bones, tired of fighting and defending. Here was where he was happiest - surrounded by his boys having fun. Happiness could not be found in the materials of the world, or in the company offered by people in exchange for money, or in senseless war and violence.

But life was not that kind. Life, Edward knew very well, would not allow him to sail peacefully with his family forever. Life would not keep enemies from attacking their protected islands and cities. Life dictated that Edward could not stop, however ancient he felt or however many IV drips he had puncturing his skin, that he could not show anyone that he was so ready to retire.

But there was no retiring from being who he was or the name he had established.

“Pops!”

Edward blinked and looked to who had called his name - his beloved son, Squard. Edward rumbled a laugh and began to pay attention again, noting with a smile that the new boy had beaten their good friend in that last round.

This, all around him, was precisely what he loved in life.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two entries in one day!
> 
> The next one will be longer and will change the rating of this fic. I'll start clearly marking each chapter's rating to avoid problems.


	6. Obsession (E-rated)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter is rated Explicit for sexual content and features Marco/Ace.

Marco did not get sick. Ever.

His devil fruit powers prevented him from catching so much as a common cold. He could heal any injury, could rid himself of all viruses, and could even grow back limbs if he ever found himself in a truly unfortunate situation. He still kept up to date with vaccinations, however; as a doctor, he thought it best to practice what he preached, after all.

Marco did not suffer any lasting mental trauma, having come to terms with his horrifying childhood long ago in the arms of an adoptive father and grasp of many brothers. He had forgotten the face of the mother who had abused him in her drug-fueled hysteria a lifetime ago, had forgotten what it was like to live without parental love that was so strong it was almost palpable.

And yet Marco seemed to be suffering a serious affliction for the first time in his recent memory, or even the more long term memory, in fact.

It was all Ace’s fault. It was so much simpler to lay the blame on the naive party than to do some much needed soul searching.

If he was honest with himself, Marco knew his problem had begun the moment he saw Ace and his previous crew being carried on board. Marco had been in the medical bay when Ace had awoken and turned violent upon learning his whereabouts, but Marco had silenced the sudden inferno with his calming, life-giving flames. The attraction was instant for him, watching the awe on Ace’s face despite himself, unable to hide his fascination in someone else’s fire that was so entirely unlike his own.

But this sickness, this sudden feverish heat that settled in his abdomen and refused to leave, had been triggered by Ace receiving his tattoo across his back.

They had all thrown a party, of course. The crew used any excuse to throw a party and get more rowdy and drunk than on a regular day. They, like everyone else in the vicinity, had had far too much to drink when Ace had gracelessly grabbed Marco round the neck with a grin and pulled him down into a sloppy, wet kiss. He had kissed back, taking Ace by the waist and searching that hot mouth with his tongue, only pulling away when Thatch had slapped him on the back with a roar of laughter and offered Ace a kiss as well.

The sickness had hung over him ever since, growing into something vile and diseased in him as he had watched Ace from afar, waiting for some kind of sign to show that that had been more than a drunken grab at a close body.

And it had come only days later. Ace had cornered him (and Marco had allowed him) in the smaller of the two shared commanders’ bathrooms on the flagship, pressing hungry, searching lips to his own in wild abandon as the Fire Fist had rid them both of their clothes with deft fingers.

It had been fast and desperate and so uncharacteristic of both of them, but neither felt they could contain themselves now that the wall had been breached in what had turned out to be a fantastic drunk idea. Marco had come with his chest pressed flush to Ace’s back, their tattoos rubbing slick with sweat, his face buried in thick black hair and fingers entwined with the younger man’s against the tiled wall.

He admitted that he had an obsession with bringing Ace’s tattooed back to his own inked chest.

He found it near impossible to concentrate whenever Ace was nearby thereafter, watching him from the corner of his eye as Ace went about his business without a damn top on every single day. Marco knew that Ace was aware of precisely how it affected the older man, and oh, did he roll with it.

Marco had wanted to stab himself with something sharp on the day he witnessed Ace weightlifting on deck, biceps and back muscles swollen with the workout and dripping with sweat. He had obediently trotted after Ace when he went to put the weights away and had found himself balls-deep in a searing hot body that was high on adrenaline in record time, Ace bracing himself against the lockers lining the changing room wall with his forearms, heated breath steaming the cool metal against his lips as he snapped his hips backwards to keep up with Marco’s fevered pace. They had learned by now to keep lube handy for these spontaneous sessions.

They couldn’t keep their hands off each other and Marco’s obsession writhed within him, lusting for Ace in ways he had never known or thought even remotely possible.

It was going to become a problem if they didn’t keep themselves in check, both acutely aware of how they were slipping into the abyss of desire for one another.

But it didn’t stop them.

Before all this happened, Marco would have never guessed that Ace could be so completely accepting of his strange ache for the ink on his back. There was no arguing that Ace was definitely aware of the reason for their lack of mixing up positions, always finding himself moaning into a surface of some description as Marco pressed kisses to his shoulders, his neck, his hair.

But then one night, curled up in Marco’s large bed together, Ace dictated their position for the first time.

“I want to see your face as you come,” Ace mouthed to Marco’s lips, swinging a leg over the blond’s hips and straddling him, meeting the instinctive grind of Marco’s pelvis into his ass as he settled. With one hand steadying himself against Whitebeard’s mark, Ace guided the thick, hard cock below him into himself, already well and truly prepped by Marco’s long, talented fingers.

He set a fast pace as was so usual for them, the slap of his hips and pants and gasps of air sending that familiar curl of _want_ roiling deep in Marco. He thrust up into Ace, fingers sliding up his spread thighs with an appreciative groan. This was _good_. Being able to clearly see Ace’s expression of unrestrained desire and lust was better than he could have imagined. Marco palmed at Ace’s dripping cock before taking it in hand, drowning in the guttural moan and harsh exhale of breath this elicited from his partner.

Ace came first, fingernails digging into Marco’s thighs below him and painting Whitebeard’s navy blue mark in the white of his ecstasy. Marco was consumed by the sight above him, losing himself to the tight, slick heat and moaning Ace’s name as he let himself _go_. They remained bound together for an unusually long while afterwards, Ace’s forehead coming to rest against Marco’s as their breathing gradually calmed. He tilted his head for a better angle and kissed the older man slowly, sensually.

“You have no idea how incredible you look when you’re feeling it,” Ace smiled against Marco’s cheek. “Taking it from behind is fucking great and all, but I want to watch you lose control of yourself more often.”

And Marco agreed, unable to form words just yet as pleasant shockwaves still trembled up his body from the intensity of his orgasm. He threaded the fingers of one hand through the unruly black locks framing his partner’s face, smiling as he was kissed again. He rather thought Ace had no right looking as indescribably hot as he did when at the height of passion.

And so Marco’s obsession evolved further, aching and yearning for Ace in any way possible at all, no longer being fascinated so exclusively by his mark.

Marco knew he had it exceptionally bad.

Marco found he did not care.

 

 


	7. Impress

Thatch was done. He was so completely and utterly done. Done with a capital D.

Done with his two friends, done with their stupidity, done with their hideous dress sense.

“And what,” he said through clenched teeth, trying with his entire being to keep his voice calm, to keep the two seething morons from catching on that he was ready to throw them overboard with seastone tied to their necks, “exactly, do you call _those?_ ”

“What?” Asked Ace, raising an eyebrow at Thatch.

Thatch inhaled slowly. “Your _shirts_ ,” he said through the exhale of breath.

Marco and Ace looked at each other and then back to Thatch. “We call them shirts, too,” Marco said slowly, his tone indicative of questioning whether Thatch was entirely sober.

Oh, he was _so_ done.

“I mean,” he said, feeling his grip on himself slipping mighty fast, “why, just _why_ , did you two look at those particular shirts and think, ‘ah yes, these are appropriate attire for dinner with the king of this country’.”

“I still don’t get why we’re meeting this guy at all,” Ace said loudly, ignoring the way Thatch’s hand twitched towards the sword at his hip, “I know he’s Pops’ friend from forever ago but _we_ aren’t. Why are we going?”

Thatch did not have the patience to explain yet again that the king had graciously invited all of Whitebeard’s commanders to join him and his wife for dinner that night.

“Regardless of the reason why,” Thatch pressed on, beginning to lose his temper as the pair of them just looked confused, “what possessed you and made you think that flamingoes were a good way to introduce yourself to a king, Ace?”

Ace looked at his shirt - a mid-blue with exuberant pink flamingoes printed all over it - and looked to Marco. “What’s wrong with flamingoes?” He asked the other commander.

Marco shrugged. “They are a bit pink,” he said reasonably as Ace nodded in acceptance, and Thatch’s restraint snapped.

“And you!” Gone was his perfect mask of calm as he pointed at Marco. “Baby blue with yellow? Really? _Really?_ Can you not see that they clash horribly? And with our crew name written across it for no fucking reason?”

“Hey, the locals really like our crew,” Ace flared up immediately, defending their honor. Thatch let out an exasperated moan.

“Don’t tell me you got that from the goddamn gift shop, Marco, please.”

“Is that what it was?” Marco raised his eyebrows at Thatch. Thatch wanted to chop his stupid head off.

“Look, we still have time to fix this,” Thatch reasoned as Marco and Ace just looked at each other, clearly not seeing a problem with their fashion senses. “The dress code was ‘dress to impress’, so Ace, if you wear that nice smart shirt I know you have somewhere with some pants - any pants, just not your fucking _shorts_  - that’ll do. Marco, I’ll lend you something of mine. Your closet’s even worse than Ace’s.”

“I don’t want to look like a chef, thanks,” Marco frowned.

“You _won’t,_ you will look _smart._ ” He was going to murder them both. No questions, no hesitating, if they didn’t get changed they were going to die by his hand and he would enjoy it.

So when Ace turned up again looking infinitely more ridiculous than he had five minutes ago, Thatch was actually unsheathing both swords as he hissed, “for the love of all that is holy, Ace, why are you wearing Marco’s damn shirt? And those pants! Where did you even get them from? Orange and black stripes? Are you color blind? Are you ignorant to appropriate color combinations? Do you _like_ looking like you escaped from a circus?”

Ace rolled up the sleeves of Marco’s trademark purple shirt, looking unreasonably pleased with himself. Yep, there it went, there went the remainder of Thatch’s hope that he could get his two adult friends to dress themselves. “I couldn’t find a smart shirt in my room so I dunno where you got that idea from,” Ace announced, “so I figured if Marco wasn’t wearing this then I could, ‘cause y’know, it’s a nice shirt.”

No, it fucking well wasn’t.

“Where is he?” Thatch demanded, looking for the missing imbecile, “he should be changed by now; I only gave him two options.”

“Oh,” Ace snapped his fingers as he remembered, “yeah, Marco left with Pops already. He didn’t get changed and sorta just left your stuff on the deck.”

Thatch drew his swords and lunged.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Being Thatch is suffering.
> 
> This is based on the brilliant official art that depicts these totally awful outfits (that I can't find right now because I'm useless). Bless you Oda for giving these men such dreadful tastes in clothes.


	8. Runaway

Sand kicked up around their feet in puffs of silver as they pounded down the street, leaping over chickens and small children as they ran wildly. Thatch span out of the way of an elderly lady bent at the waist in the nick of time, apologising to her as he sped off to catch up with his partner in crime.

“Ace, you fucker!” he yelled, not appreciating the grin he got over the other thief’s shoulder, “you said you had your wallet on you!”

“I lied!” Ace laughed, dodging a market-goer as they stepped into his path at the wrong moment, “you should know to bring your own after last time!”

“This is fun for you, isn’t it? How? How are you finding this even slightly amusing?”

“What’s life without a little bit of adrenaline now and then, my good man!”

“We’re _pirates_ , our _existence_  is one huge adrenaline trip!”

The shouts of the restaurant owner reverberated down the street after them, screaming for the locals to catch the bastards who thought it perfectly acceptable to dine ‘n’ dash. Ace hooted with laughter as the stall owners began to realise that _they_ were the ones that old man Amar was shouting himself blue in the face about.

“If they catch us,” Thatch panted, vaulting over a barrel of luridly colored spices, “I’m turning traitor and helping them hang you.”

“Better hope they don’t, then, eh?”

They skidded to a halt at the docks, casting around wildly for the rowboat they and a couple of the second division had rowed into port in - gone. Vanished. Those bastards…

“C’mon,” Ace snapped his fingers for Thatch’s attention, “Marco’s plan B, he’ll catch us at the highest point.”

They turned, sprinting flat out along the dock towards where the land rose upwards in a gradual slope, coming to a sudden stop with a sharp drop some few hundred feet above the ocean.

“Catch?” Thatch repeated incredulously, “ _catch?_ Whaddaya mean, ‘catch’?”

The restaurant owner and his assembled band of fellow market-goers arrived noisily into the harbour as well, swinging around wildly before one of them spotted their quarry with a yell; they charged after the runaways, screaming death threats and promises of pain.

“Yeah, catch,” Ace confirmed, breath slightly labored as they ascended the gentle slope towards the cliff edge, “we take a running jump and he just kinda- he kinda grabs us out of the air and swooshes us home.”

Thatch prayed for patience and he was not granted it.

“ _That’s_ the plan?” He hollered, “we’re to go diving to certain death and hope our fucking bird is there to catch us like-”

“Look!”

Ace pointed into the sky where, high above, an enormous blue and gold phoenix emerged from seemingly nowhere, Marco having been on lookout for the pair of idiots at the docks for the last half an hour.

They raced towards the point of no return as Marco began to dive for the spot in the air where they would be in seconds, Thatch grabbing at Ace fruitlessly to stop him, not slowing his own feet thanks to the din that the market-goers were making right behind them.

“Has he ever had to catch two people at once doing something like this?”

“Eh? Ah, no.”

“ _No?!_ ”

But it was too late. Ace had grabbed Thatch’s wrist and leapt through the air, and they were going down, down, down…

Marco soared straight for them, telling himself that this was definitely the last time he would assist Ace in his infamous miracle escape stunt that he so loved to pull, stretching out his talons for the packs on their backs as they came into reach—

And he missed.

Both of them.

“You fucking crazy bastard!” He heard Thatch shriek as Ace’s shouts of laughter at a hilarious getaway turned instantly to screams of terror, pulling up short at the sound of two bodies hitting the sea far below.

Marco hovered on the spot, momentarily stunned at having missed not one, but _two_ targets. That had never happened. He gathered himself and dove for the surface of the sea, Thatch popping up and treading water as Marco arrived.

“Ah, fuckin’ leave him to drown,” Thatch cried as he spat out sea water, splashing angrily at Marco as he circled just above him, “and you, get down here and join him, you useless turkey!”

Ah, Pops would never, ever let him forget this one when he heard the tale.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Being Thatch is suffering - part 2.
> 
> Thatch enjoys his fair share of nonsense, but sometimes, Ace and Marco really test his patience.


	9. Melody

“Have you ever heard the legends about the phoenix?”

Ace pulled his attention away from the nachos he was sharing on the deck with Vista and Haruta, looking up at Izou silhouetted against the sinking sun.

“Our phoenix?” He asked, glancing over at Marco on the other side of the deck; the man was reprimanding two members of his division, evidently not impressed that they had thought it appropriate to offer a couple of the nurses their company in bed.

“Could well be,” Izou said mysteriously, bending at the knees to sit seiza-style next to the Fire Fist. “Legends only indicate a phoenix that is ‘vibrant and colorful’, so it could mean him.”

“Or whoever had the power before him,” Vista said wisely, munching on a chip. Izou nodded.

“What do they say?” Ace asked.

“Well, apparently, phoenix tears can heal just about any wound,” Izou began, his interest in the topic very apparent on his pale face, “and they can carry loads several times their own weight.”

“Has anyone ever tested that on our blue birdy?” Haruta wondered aloud, also looking over to watch Marco as he returned to Whitebeard’s side, apologising to the nurses there for his subordinates’ behaviour. “I mean, has anyone got themselves injured and had Marco cry on them?”

“Sounds like a very roundabout way of getting patched up,” Vista said, stroking his moustache, “seeing as he can heal well enough using that fire of his in his hands.”

“Also,” Izou continued with the air of someone not thrilled to find themselves interrupted, “they live for up to five hundred years before dying in a burst of flames and being reborn from their own ashes.”

“OK, that’s pretty cool,” Ace said, looking impressed.

“How old’s Marco, again?” Haruta asked.

“Old enough to be your dad, munchkin,” came Thatch’s voice as he joined the commanders, squatting in between Ace and Vista to reach for the nachos. “What’s the topic, my guys?”

“Our resident flaming turkey.”

“Ooh, Ace, don’t let him hear you call him that, he’ll throw you overboard again.”

“ _And_ ,” Izou powered on, “a phoenix’s song is supposed to be the most beautiful thing one could ever hear. It gives the listener courage and has emotional healing abilities. Nothing can compare to it, apparently.”

The group sat in silence at this, all of them thinking the same thing.

Vista was the one to voice the question. “Has anyone ever actually heard Marco sing?”

They hadn’t; the answer was there on everyone’s faces.

“How have I gone twenty-something years without hearing him sing?” Thatch asked incredulously, clearly wringing his brain for a memory. “Poor guy’s heard _me_ singing to myself almost every day.”

“Yeah, so have we,” Haruta grumbled, “it’s really irritating.”

“I am of the opinion,” Vista said pompously, “that all music carries the melody of the souls who create it.”

“Sure,” Ace smirked, “I gotta agree that ’Smack My Bitch Up’ really is a rendition of some guy’s soul, all right.”

“All right, let’s find out if Izou’s legend is true,” Thatch said quickly, heading off Vista’s indignant reply. “Oi, Marco!” He yelled across the deck, gaining Marco and Whitebeard’s dual attention. “Belt us out a power ballad, mate!”

Whitebeard chortled loudly as Marco simply looked at Thatch, expression as indifferent and bored as ever, before he turned back to their captain and continued their conversation, choosing to ignore the random demand.

Thatch frowned. “Boring misery,” he tutted as the others snickered. “Hand us the bowl, Ace, before you eat them all. I’m starving.”

 

* * *

 

Izou walked slowly along the empty deck of the ship, kiseru in hand as the cool night breeze ruffled the hem of his yukata. He enjoyed the peace that came with the early hours of the morning, almost everyone else either asleep in their rooms or passed out somewhere with a bottle of alcohol clutched close.

He leaned against the side of the ship, bringing his pipe to his lips and taking a long, slow drag. The other commanders hadn’t lingered on the subject of the legendary phoenix after Thatch’s demand for a song from Marco, choosing instead to turn the topic to far more unsavoury matters such as the longest they had ever worn the same pair of underwear; Haruta, surprisingly, had come out top at a disgusting 23 days in a row. Izou had left the group shortly after hearing this, choosing to take to his own company rather than suffer more of Thatch’s demands to know about his underwear-donning habits.

Izou watched the smoke rise and curl from the pipe between his fingers, gently melding into the night air high above him. How nice it would be if somewhere out there, phoenixes really did exist along with other mythical creatures. Something alive that was so solidly permanent within reality, living for aeons and experiencing the ageing of the planet it resided on.

Never dying. Never fading.

His attention lifted skywards as a rush of wind upset the lazy trail of smoke he had been watching; the very real, very alive phoenix that Izou knew so well skimmed along the air overhead, emanating a halo of light around it as it glided on enormous, flaming wings.

Izou waved as Marco tilted and curved a wide crescent around the figurehead of the ship, clearly out at this time for the same reason as his fellow commander. Izou watched him fly alongside the port side of the ship, disappearing around the stern before reappearing up the starboard side in a blaze of fire and light.

And then Izou heard the most melodic, exquisitely beautiful sound he had ever experienced.

It was like hope given voice, a song spun with rivulets of auditory gold along a web of quivering promise. It was all that was good in the world poured into a single, clear note, spellbinding and captivating Izou’s senses entirely. His heart felt warm within him, his every nerve and fibre and neuron dyed halcyon as a sense of valor rose from deep within him, eclipsing any memory of fear and doubt that he had ever held.

It was coming from the phoenix as it rose into the air above the bow, wings spread wide and bright against the full moon as Izou stared, entranced.

He felt healed, saved from the hellish landscape of his past and assured a future of utter serenity through that quavering aria. He would never know anything but peace again, surely.

The legends he had read about in the ship’s library _had_ to refer to their cyan phoenix, or at the very least to they who had possessed that power before Marco. Izou ached to know the truth, to dig up the history of the devil fruit’s power as he sunk to the floor of the ship, back sliding down the wooden side.

Had the last user really lived for five hundred years? Would Marco? Would he die in a burst of fire and ash only to rise again?

He wanted to know, ached to find the answer, but knew it was ultimately impossible.

But the song that captured him soothed his mind, telling him it did not matter, that he would not know peace in his quest for the unanswerable, and Izou surrendered his mind to the melody, smiling and closing his eyes as wave after wave of the phoenix’s song washed over him.

He could not hope to share this with the others; they would have to find a way to experience it for themselves.

 

 


	10. Duplicity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for canonical character death. This deals with Teach's desertion of the crew.
> 
> Marco/Ace.
> 
> You ain't gonna have a good time with this one, folks.

The celebrations had lasted into the early hours of the morning, drunken crew members rampaging merrily across the deck and into the belly of the flagship in their shared joy. The fourth division had been particularly boisterous, not leaving Thatch alone with the other commanders for a moment, seeing fit to keep him for themselves for the night as they celebrated his discovery of the Yami-Yami fruit.

So when someone from Thatch’s division crashed through the doorway of Marco’s room well before the sun had really risen, he could only assume that the young man had sunk more rum than he could handle.

“Commander Marco!” The man, Eric, shouted, wild-eyed and frankly mad-looking as the door bounced back against him off the wall. “You have to come quickly!”

Marco sat up and fully awake in an instant, palm pressed to Ace’s back behind him to keep him down and out of sight. Eric’s tone made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. This was not the raving of a drunk man.

“What? What’s happened?”

“It’s Thatch, there’s been- he’s-”

Ace sat up too, hair utterly dishevelled and giving their secret away. Eric barely spared him a glance as he shoved a hand through his own mop of sandy-colored hair in obvious distress.

“What about Thatch?” Ace demanded.

Eric simply shook his head frantically; he looked like he was on the verge of vomiting.

“We’re coming,” Marco stood, grabbing up his clothes from over the back of his chair and flinging Ace’s shorts to him.

They followed Eric at a run, shooting each other nervous glances but not saying a word, not daring to speculate what was going on.

But they didn’t need to guess for long. Eric led them aft to the stern of the ship, his knees threatening to buckle as he trembled, looking to something - someone - on the floor that was surrounded by a ring of crew members. The two commanders pushed past Eric and simultaneously felt the world collapse around them.

Thatch.

Thatch lay dead, sprawled on his front. Blood pooled around his abdomen from a deep, wide stab wound to his lower back. More was sprayed on the deck around his face, thick on his lips, indicating he had died in vast amounts of pain.

Marco swore he felt his heart stop as he took in the sight he had never wanted to see. His vision receded as black edged into his periphery, suddenly lightheaded and sick. This could not be real. This had to be someone’s perverse idea of a joke.

His breath stuck in his chest as Ace stepped towards their beloved friend, dropping to his knees beside the body and staring. Just staring.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t supposed to be possible. Thatch, their nakama, his best friend for more than half his life, could not be dead. The man who had done so much, travelled so far, faced so many odds and always come up top.

But not this time.

A moan split the still air as someone from the crowd - another of the chefs from the fourth division - howled in sorrow, clutching at his face to muffle the noise. Marco looked to them all, recognising most of them to be from Thatch’s division, no doubt roused first before Eric had come for him.

“How did this happen?”

His words were like ice, spoken calmly yet carrying the threat of death to whoever revealed themselves as Thatch’s murderer. No one spoke, the quiet rustle of pirates sobbing into their sleeves the only sound Marco could hear.

“You.” He snapped his fingers at the nearest man, a dark-haired youngster called Johnny, if he remembered correctly. “Has Pops been woken?”

Johnny shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Go. Get him. Raise Jozu and send word to the other ships.”

He looked down to Ace as Johnny scrabbled away. Tears flowed silently over freckled cheeks as the young man stroked Thatch’s hair gently, lovingly. Marco knew full well that the rage would ignite the moment the shock began to fade. Ace was always the polar opposite to him; he would allow the utter gut-wrenching grief to swallow him later.

“Again,” he said, tone colder than anyone had ever heard, “how did this _happen?_ Who was on watch? Did someone board in the night?”

The weeping fourth division offered him no help whatsoever, holding each other and shuffling their feet uselessly as they dithered, no idea what to do. Marco bit the inside of his cheek.

But he knew as he knelt beside Thatch, could see it plainly as if he had been there as witness, that this had been planned by someone who knew the man. Marco lifted the back of Thatch’s shirt slowly, hating himself for having to look but knowing he needed to, and studied the wound.

It was deep, very deep, almost definitely perforating the left kidney and transverse, the doctor within him concluded. Death would have taken time, had left the commander suffering for several minutes, without a doubt. It was impossibly sickening to think about anyone wishing that on someone as wonderful as Thatch.

Ace watched Marco as he lay Thatch’s shirt back down, the beginnings of anger showing in his eyes. “This was deliberate,” Ace concluded the same thing as Marco, the fury swelling as they looked at each other. “This wasn’t an accident. He was targeted.”

The ground shook as Whitebeard and Jozu approached, led by a very faint-looking Johnny. Whitebeard stopped dead in his tracks, gaze pinned to the back of his murdered son.

He did not say anything for a long moment, and he did not move. The air crackled with energy as Whitebeard appeared to gather himself. He closed his eyes slowly, squeezing them shut as if he hoped that when he opened them again he would wake from the nightmare that lay before him.

“Marco,” he rumbled after several tense seconds, “your conclusion. What ill fate befell my beloved son?”

Marco stood, glancing at Ace as he rose. Ace did not move. “Thatch has been murdered,” he said quietly, tone belying the rage that lay in the words he was about to speak, “by one of our own.”

The onlookers shifted around them, some slumping to their feet as they took in the meaning of the first mate’s words.

“You mean to tell me,” Whitebeard said slowly, opening his eyes at last, a cold fury there as he pinned Marco with that gaze, “that one of my own sons - one of our family - has committed this act?”

Marco nodded. Whitebeard inhaled slowly.

“Find him.”

Ace was on his feet immediately, looking to Marco as the older man took charge. “Commanders are to check their own divisions,” he said, nodding at Ace and Jozu, “gather everyone and make sure they’re all present. Double check. If we find someone missing then we have ourselves our piece of filth. I’ll fill in the others and take charge of the fourth division. Go.” Ace and Jozu turned on their heels and left.

He spared Whitebeard a glance as he transformed, and the misery written across his father’s face startled him. He circled above them once as he watched Whitebeard lift Thatch’s body into his arms so tenderly, so carefully, as if Thatch may collapse into dust through his fingers.

It broke Marco’s heart.

He landed on each of the ships and relayed the message to the four commanders stationed on each, hating himself for not taking the time to comfort them as they looked stricken to learn that Johnny’s rushed message had in fact been true. There would be time for grieving when they caught the traitor.

Assembling his own division was easy, all of them woken and alert promptly. He counted them all and counted again, intimately familiar with the number under his command and satisfied to see all present. One of the nurses took Marco by the hand and asked if it was true; she sobbed when he confirmed it was.

Running through the fourth division was a lot harder. They were in no fit state to be of any help, many holding each other and crying, some fully unresponsive to commands as they stared blankly at the floor. Marco was again struck by the outright oddness that someone could have actually intentionally killed Thatch, a man so clearly loved and cherished within the crew.

He didn’t want to accept the very likely possible reason for his friend’s fate.

He dispersed the fourth division from the stern, ordering them to standby on the main deck for now. He watched as Whitebeard carried Thatch’s limp body into his own chambers, settling him on his vast bed and laying his arms by his sides. Marco looked away quickly as Whitebeard’s shoulders started to shake.

By the end of the hour since discovering his brother, Marco was confident that none of his own division or Thatch’s had been involved. None were missing or acting suspiciously, at least.

He wished that the same had held true for Ace.

The man arrived back by Whitebeard’s side after Marco did, bright within a flurry of flames that were ill-controlled and vicious around him. Marco felt his chest constrict tightly as he met that hardened gaze and he knew something was seriously wrong.

“Teach is gone.”

 _Teach_. Ace’s good friend. _Thatch’s_ good friend, too. He couldn’t be right.

“Check again,” Marco said, stunned.

“I did,” Ace spat. “I checked his room, too. All his things are gone.”

The commanders stared at him in silent horror as Whitebeard seemed to sag with disbelief.

“The devil fruit’s gone, too.”

Izou actually gasped. That explained their need to know why, in any case.

What a thing to lose your life over. What an utter waste of a precious person.

Marco looked to Whitebeard for his orders, but none came. He looked lost, wounded, like his heart was breaking and his mind couldn’t grasp the impossibleness of the situation. Gone was the terrifying fury that had been etched into every line of his face before, replaced by a deeply unsettlingly uncharacteristic look of helplessness and _fear_.

“I can’t let him get away with this,” Ace hissed, fists clenched and shaking, “he’s not walking away from this, not if I can do anything about it. I’m going to kill him.”

And he turned from them, ignoring their horrified gazes following him.

“He’s not serious, is he?” Vista asked the group at large. No one answered.

A churning, terrified, roiling wave of nausea swept through Marco’s stomach as Ace passed him, deliberately avoiding his eyes. “Wait,” Marco started, snatching at Ace’s wrist, but Ace yanked it away and stalked off towards the commanders’ cabins.

He could feel his hands shaking, his knees following shortly after as the nausea rose. He looked to Whitebeard, dashing after the second commander as their father nodded for him to follow.

“Ace, wait,” Marco gasped as he entered Ace’s bedroom, “you can’t go after him.”

“Don’t you dare try and stop me,” Ace snarled, tugging his backpack out from under his bed, “he’s my responsibility, he’s in my division.”

“That doesn’t mean you-”

“It’s my fault Thatch is dead!”

They stared at each other for a long moment, Ace breathing heavily with barely restrained anger, Marco feeling like he was going to be sick.

“Don’t say that,” Marco whispered, stepping closer and taking it as a good sign that Ace didn’t move away, “don’t _say_ that. You couldn’t have known Teach would do this. Thatch and I have known him almost as long as each other, he never-”

“Don’t,” Ace hissed as Marco laid a palm over the hand that clasped the strap of his bag, “just don’t. There were signs; there had to have been. And I didn’t…” He ground his teeth, looking furious.

“No,” Marco moaned the word, cupping a freckled cheek and laying his forehead to Ace’s, the churning sickness calming slightly as he felt Ace lean into the touch, “Teach is a coward, we’ve known that since the start. Always the first to run in a fight, always the first to go hide when it gets tough. How could we have- _you_ couldn’t have-”

“It’s my job to, though.” Ace’s voice began to shake. “It’s my _job_ , Marco, to know what my division are. To see what they’re capable of. And I,” he swallowed, exhaling, “and I messed up so bad.”

He pulled away, flicking his hand out of Marco’s grasp and pulling open a drawer to stuff clothes from it into his bag.

“So you’re going to leave us?” Marco flared up, flashes of blue igniting along his shoulders, “you’re going to deprive Pops of a third son today?” Ace reacted to this, pausing as he shoved a map into his bag. “He’s already lost Thatch and Teach; you’re honestly saying you’re OK with him losing you, too? You’re happy for the crew to watch a third brother wink out of their lives in the space of a couple of hours? Don’t be so selfish.”

“Yeah, I’m selfish, all right,” Ace rounded on him, the mix of anger and sorrow on his features catching Marco off guard, “selfish enough to busy myself with the other commanders, with _you_ , and neglect my division to do so.”

“Spending more time with Teach wouldn’t have prevented this, Ace, please understand that,” Marco said desperately.

”You don’t know that.”

Marco slapped a hand to his own forehead in frustration. How could Ace not see it? This wasn’t his fault, he was in no way to blame for this. Teach had known what that fruit was the moment Thatch had brought it on board and he had wanted it for himself, had probably had the intention of finding that very fruit from the moment he had joined the crew. He had used them to travel the New World, used them to lead him to the power that he wanted.

He really was the very definition of a coward.

“And you’re going to leave me?”

Ace froze, shocked by the open anguish Marco looked at him with now. The anger seemed to calm within him, his shoulders relaxing a little as he stared at the blond.

“Mar-”

“Don’t go. Please, don’t go.” His heart was racing, stomach turning knots and fluttering with butterflies of sheer anxiety as he dropped his gaze to the floor, shaken from admitting to his vulnerability.

Warm hands encircled his neck as Ace pulled him close and kissed him deep and slow, pressing his hot body into Marco’s as Marco wrapped his arms around Ace’s waist and pulled him in. He longed for the kiss to never end, to feel Ace’s lips to his for the rest of his life or to die in that moment surrounded by a bubble of blissful heat. Ace kissed him passionately, lovingly, conveying feelings that could never be summed up in mere words. Their flames sparked and danced between them, that link that had ignited their initial attraction so long ago now holding one another in their final farewell.

“I love you,” Marco breathed against Ace’s warm lips, “I love you so much, Ace.”

“I love you, too,” Ace said, sniffing and blinking hard, “I’m _so_ stupidly in love with you. But this isn’t about that, Marco. I can’t stay here knowing that he’s free. I can’t.”

Marco bit his lip as his throat tightened against a sob, eyes prickling with tears. “I have a really bad feeling about this,” he confessed, “I’ll come with you. I can’t lose you as well as Thatch.”

“Pops needs you here, you know he does.”

Ace kissed him again, long and lingering and full of remorse.

“I’ll come back to you - to everyone - I promise. You’re my family. You, Marco, you're-” he laid a palm over Marco’s heart, sniffing again and blinking back tears, “you’re my home. Here. And I’ll always come back home.”

Oh, how he wanted to believe him. How he tried and failed to believe him as Ace left the room, slinging his bag on his back as he went.

By the time Marco had stemmed the tears and caught up with Ace on deck, the rage had taken a hold of the young commander again. Ace was deaf to Whitebeard’s warnings, to the crew’s screams, to Marco hanging over the side of the ship and imploring he did not leave.

He would never forget that day. Marco would never stop reliving it in his dreams, playing over the ‘what if’ scenario where he stubbornly abandoned his father and flew with Ace. If he had been there to keep him safe. If he had only stayed with Thatch that fated night. If they had fallen asleep in a drunken pile together, safe, warm, and content.

How would life had turned out then?

 

 


	11. Loyalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small warning for random men being shitty about Izou's appearance. I've also fallen in love with the twins??

Izou had heard them. He always heard them. Always. Wherever he and his brothers went, regardless of the types of people they mixed with in taverns or traded with in market places, Izou never failed to notice the side-long glance of at least one local.

The disapproving glare. The soft smirk of disgust.

He _always_ noticed.

This time was no different.

Two burly men, huddled together at the bar, not even trying to keep their voices down as he and a couple of his division passed on their way to the tables that around a third of their division occupied.

“That _is_ a dude, right?”

“Fuck knows. Probably. Should be ashamed of himself, going around dressed like that.”

One caught his eye. He looked away with a blink, not wanting to start trouble if he could help it - they were due to be in port here for three days at most, and this was a great tavern that they were keen to not get banned from. It was alright, it _had_ to be alright, to let it go, chalk it up to ignorance or closed-mindedness or whatever else it was. There were people in the spacious tavern dressed significantly more exuberantly and outlandishly that Izou would ever dream of, yet these two men only had eyes for his yukata.

His division did not agree. They never did.

A slam of a palm to the wooden top of the bar.

“The _fuck_  did you just say?”

Ricardo, weapons specialist who outshone all of the more talented members of the sixteenth division, was leaning over the men, venom dripping from his words. On their other side mirrored Shoda, Ricardo’s female double, never far from her twin.

“Because it _sounded_ like you were insulting our commander,” Shoda snarled, her teeth bared, “and we don’t take kindly to comments like that.”

The men looked taken aback by the open confrontation, blinking up at the dark twins. They had clearly not expected a fight to come from their snide remarks, evidently either being ignorant to which crew these people belonged to or thinking the Whitebeards were too far up their own asses to stoop to the level of a lowly drunk at a bar.

“Leave it,” Izou snapped at his subordinates, “let it go. Let them have their fun.” He was used to it, no matter how much it bothered him, and he _really_ didn’t want to make a scene and be the reason why his division and the few of the fourth who were currently spilling through the doors had to leave. Not again.

The twins moved away from the men reluctantly, and Izou turned back to their party.

A mumble of words that were inaudible to him.

The slam of a skull to wood along with a grunt of pain.

“You try saying that again,” Shoda hissed, taking her dagger from her hip and stabbing it into the bar mere inches from the larger of the two men’s eyebrows, “and I’ll slice your nose clean off. You get me?”

“Shoda! I said leave it!”

They were starting to attract attention. Again. _Again_. Why did this have to happen so often? Why did random people feel the need to drag him down, to put their useless, unwarranted opinions out into the air? Izou used to challenge them just as the twins were now, used to let the anger and indignation take him and fuel the draw of his pistol to their temples.

“Sorry, Commander,” Ricardo replied, moving in tandem with his sister and slamming the head of the second man to the bar with ease, earning a grunt, “no can do. I won’t bother repeating what these pieces of scum said, but trust me, they deserve this.”

Izou clenched his jaw to stop himself gaping at his favorite tag team disobeying him. For his sake.

“Now,” Shoda said, taking one of the men by the scruff of his shirt and hauling him upright again, “the four of us are going to step outside for a nice chat, OK? You can tell us all about why you are so mortally offended by one of Whitebeard’s commanders dressing in accordance with his home country’s norms.”

Both men paled as they were roughly shoved from their seats; ah, so they _hadn’t_  realised who they were. Figured. Quite how, though, was a mystery, seeing as several of the sixteenth division members who were present sported their crew’s mark on their clothes or arms.

Izou snorted incredulously as the twins left the tavern with the men; if they were taking the drama outside then Izou had no reason to intervene. Or at least that’s what he told himself.

“Are they off defending your honor again?” Thatch asked as he brought up the rear of the small group of fourth division members, hands shoved in his pockets.

Izou nodded. “They really don’t need to,” he said in a would-be annoyed tone, “I keep telling them it isn’t a big deal.”

“It is, though,” Thatch corrected him, pulling out a chair at one of the tables and sitting, “and I’m with them, personally. People like that need to know it’s not OK to talk about you like that.”

Izou opened his mouth to retort that he didn’t need protecting, but closed it again quickly. Regardless of whether he needed it or not, they wanted to.

A scream and the sound of metal hitting brick sounded from outside over the noise of the tavern, making Izou jump a little; maybe he would have to go and rein them in after all.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone online (not on here) really pissed me off and upset me today. So much so that I nearly deleted my account on here and everything with it. They had me sit and question why I was writing, whether I was right to write what I am, and all that nonsense. I'm too old for this, dammit. I've loved this crew for a damn long time and there's nothing you, a random stranger among the crowd, can do to change that ♥


	12. Winter

The wind howled around the island, blowing cold and biting at the pirates who had dared trespass onto it’s frozen ground. Haruta shivered violently and buried deeper into the neck of his thick woolly coat, hood over his head and drawn tight. He _hated_ winter islands, and this was no exception.

A few select members of his division and of the second division had bravely volunteered (or been persuaded to volunteer by their commanders) to leave their ships and venture onto Bruma island in search of a native breed of ice fish - quite why the fishermen of the fourth division weren’t currently shivering their asses off on the land was well beyond Haruta’s understanding, grumbling as he thought of them keeping nice and warm in the Moby Dick’s kitchens instead. Damn Thatch and his powers of negotiation. Haruta would see to it that the man took on his procurement duties for the rest of his life.

Haruta also failed to understand just how Ace and his ten members of the second division had come into this equation. Their numbers were certainly not required - Haruta’s huddle of twenty men were more than enough to get the job done - although there was some logic to bringing Ace himself along, he conceded.

The poor men of the second division were huddled against the wind and the driving snow, watching as their commander heated up a small circle of ice in the middle of a frozen lake. Steam billowed over the surface as Ace concentrated, melting it slowly and carefully to avoid cracking the entire surface and sending them all to their icy deaths.

And, of course, the damn fool was _topless_. Haruta snarled into the lining of his coat as he eyed Ace, loathing him in that moment for his power. Cold weather never, ever bothered the young man. He was completely indifferent to it, more than happy to dash about the deck of the ship and help with the rigging, with unfurling the sails, with joining the watch in the crow’s nest… With warming the hearts of the men with his cheerful attitude, and accepting their cuddles when the allure of his high body heat got too much to bear for the chilled pirates.

Rods were cast into the circle of icy water when Ace finished, the members of the second division getting to work immediately, adamant to get the stock they needed and get the hell back to the ship as fast as they could.

The breed of fish they were after was common on this island, living exclusively in this lake and thriving due to lack of overfishing. The crew made a yearly journey to this place to stock up, not wishing to make the trip more regularly. The fish naturally produced a bile that the scientists of the first division extracted and used in a serum for Pop’s medicine, adding it in tiny doses to his IV bags. It was an essential part of his medical care, and Marco would personally gut anyone who got in the way of them carrying out this highly important task.

Haruta rather thought it would have been more appropriate for Marco to come here instead of him and freeze _his_ balls off.

He scowled at Ace as he jogged over, looking far too happy for such a dire landscape.

“One down, two to go,” Ace grinned at Haruta’s obvious displeasure, earning himself a sharp nod. Two more holes to melt through the ice. Each one took the Logia user a decent five minutes, meaning Haruta’s return to the ship was absolutely not going to happen in the next ten minutes. Not factoring in the time it took for the men to actually fish out the required number of ice fish. Dammit all. Damn Marco for specifying they needed more than a hundred of the stupid things.

The first fish was caught mere minutes after the second division had cast their lines, raising a shout of glee from Hemming as he held the wriggling creature aloft. Did they not know that their noise would drive away the fish and make it harder to catch them? Haruta wanted to go home so badly.

“Cheer up,” Ace told him as he straightened up, the third and final hole successfully melted away, “it’s not _that_ bad.”

“Easy for you to say,” Haruta grumbled, eyeing Ace’s naked chest in distaste, “you’re a human furnace.”

“Yeah,” Ace laughed, “but it’s not as bad as that other winter island we went to, remember? Antarmicia or whatever it was called. Even I was cold there.”

Haruta grimaced. “I remember you putting on a coat. A single coat. You call that bad?”

Ace chuckled, evidently taking pleasure in winding up Haruta for a change. Nothing much got to Haruta, forever smiling and always up for fun with whoever was around. The cold changed all of that, apparently, turning him into a version of Thatch on a particularly bad hair day.

“I can warm you up a bit, if you like,” Ace offered, eyes twinkling. Haruta narrowed his own.

“What, and expose myself to the elements to allow for some naked cuddling? Count me the fuck out, dude. I’m not unzipping my layers for any amount of skin on skin from you, the cold will kill me before you can get close.”

Ace laughed at his fierce hatred of the howling wind and stinging snowstorm. “Suit yourself.”

“I’ll take some of that cuddling!” yelled a member of Haruta’s division, a broad, burly man by the name of Jenson who was close enough to them to hear their exchange over the high winds, “bring it here, Fire Fist! I’ll brave the cold for you!”

The man to Jenson’s right perked up. “Ace is handing out cuddles?”

Another man looked around. “Get your ass over here, Commander Ace!”

And soon enough the whole group of twelfth division members were barking like seals for Ace to warm them up, some even going as far as shouting for him to literally set them on fire. Haruta frowned at the lot of them, rubbing his gloved hands together to get some feeling back in his fingers. Surely if they all got distracted then this annoying mission would take them twice as long, and that was absolutely not something he was up for allowing them to do.

“Fine,” he snapped, grabbing Ace by the arm as he made to leave for the frozen men, “ _fine_. Don’t distract them from getting those damn fish. The sooner they catch them, the sooner we can leave and you can barbecue them all in one go if that’s what makes them happy.”

Haruta began unzipping and unbuttoning his many, many layers, fingers numb and slipping as he opened himself up. Ace raised his eyebrows, smirking.

“Had a change of heart?”

Haruta sniffed. “It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make if it means we get away quicker.”

“How very noble of you.”

“Shut up.”

Ace chuckled at him as Haruta moved closer, holding off on unzipping his inner-most coat until Ace was in position. He shivered hard, a violent spasm coursing through him, as Ace took the last zipper and unzipped it himself, immediately tucking his hands in between the fabric and Haruta’s cold body.

Haruta sighed into the immediate relief of Ace’s heat as Ace’s arms encircled his back, pulling him in flush to his unnaturally warm chest. He hugged Ace back, gloved palms pressed to the tattoo on his back and wishing he could feel that heat along his arms too yet not daring to fully shed any of his layers. Haruta buried his face into the curve of Ace’s neck to shoulder, groaning at how hot his friend was. This was _heaven_.

And his men were outraged.

“Oi!” Jenson bellowed, actually dropping his fishing rod and turning around properly, “don’t hog him all for yourself, Commander! We’re freezing our tits off too!”

The rest of the twelfth division yelled in agreement; Haruta sighed into Ace’s skin, feeling the younger man laughing against him. He was so warm, so content, so glad he had changed his mind and taken to cuddling his brother.

“You aren’t the only ones who’re about to become titless,” shouted another voice, one that made Haruta frown and start to pay attention, “he’s _our_ commander, so we have first dibs on him!”

“I can’t feel my ears!” another voice wailed over the general agreement from the men.

Ah, crap. The second division members, who had been further away and out of earshot, had come over. Abandoned their tasks. What the fuck.

Just as Haruta raised his face to ask the men precisely what the hell they thought they were doing, he suddenly found himself in the centre of a pirate dog-pile. Bodies pressed against him and smothered him as seemingly everyone in their company grabbed for Ace, who was laughing and encouraging them, the fool, by grabbing for them too. Haruta clung onto him, not relinquishing his personal heater and wanting to cry at the sudden loss of Ace’s arms around him.

“Cuddle pile!”

“Ace, _no!_ ”

* * *

 

Six hours. It had taken them an entire six hours to collect enough fish to call it a day and trudge back to the fleet. Six _fucking_ hours instead of the projected four, all because the men had refused to let go of Ace until they had sufficiently heated up. And had then come back for another round of hugs when the cold had got too much again.

Haruta had thoroughly disliked being in the middle of the sausage sandwich, squashed into his fellow commander from all sides by his men and Ace’s in their attempts to be as close as possible. At least Ace had found it funny, not joining Haruta in his muffled yells of protest and demands that they get the hell back to fishing.

Marco had found it highly amusing too, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter as Haruta dumped the last barrel of fish at his feet outside Lab A.

And he was still cold. Still so very, very cold. His finger joints ached, his ears were red, his nose hurt, and his movements were slow. He would get Ace to himself this time, he decided as he stole along the commanders’ corridor on the Moby Dick. He would shove the Fire Fist aside and curl up next to him, sleeping soundly with his human hot water bottle. Yes, he was very much looking forward to it.

Haruta’s pillow fell from under his arm as he entered Ace’s bedroom, gaping at the sight he beheld. These guys were really taking the piss now.

He had never seen three fully grown adult men fit into a commander’s bed at the same time, but there were Thatch, Ace, and Marco proving to him that it could be done. Ace was in the middle, sat up and apparently in mid conversation with Deuce, his ex first mate, who was sat on the floor and leaning against the bed. Thatch and Marco were on either side of Ace, lying on their sides and listening to the story, propped up on their elbows. Men from the twelfth and second divisions - the same men who had been on the fishing mission, Haruta recognised with a grind of his teeth - were strewn around the room in sleeping bags, at the desk chair, settled with their backs to the walls or spread along the floor, packed in tight like a tin of sardines.

The heat washed over Haruta as he took in the scene, radiating from Ace as the epicentre and swallowing the entire room in warmth. Thatch and Marco had to be the luckiest men alive in that moment, cuddled so close to the crew’s resident boiler. Haruta knew full well that neither men coped well with low temperatures, but this was something else.

“Hey, Haruta!” Ace said cheerfully, waving at him, “are you joining the sleepover?”

Haruta gaped at him momentarily; the crew at his feet rumbled with laughter.

“Where?” he asked, utterly bemused, as he scanned the floor - there wasn’t a spare inch of space to be seen, not with so many people packed into a room that was designed for a single person to live in. This was outrageous even by their standards. It wasn’t unusual for people to bundle up into rooms for sleepovers, but this was really pushing it.

“Right here,” Thatch grinned from the far side of the bed against the wall, patting Ace’s thighs through the blanket, “you’re not heavy, you’ll be all right.”

Haruta laughed at Ace’s encouraging nod. “Four in a bed? Are you serious?”

He was, Haruta could see it. He shook his head with a grin, sighing at his friends and subordinates. The men began to join in, too.

“C’mon Commander, get yourself nice and toasty!”

“Go and get a cuddle, Haruta!”

“Shut the door, you’re letting the cold air in!”

Haruta grinned and heaved an exaggerated sigh as he closed the door, picking up his dropped pillow as he did so. Navigating a route through the sleeping bags was a challenge, but he eventually clambered over Marco’s legs onto the bed and draped himself up Ace like a cat. He almost purred when Ace’s warm fingers ran through his cold brown hair, caressing his scalp.

“This is weird, I’ll admit it,” Haruta deadpanned, “but I really don’t care right now. You’re _so_ warm.”

The room gradually fell silent as the crew dropped off one by one, gentle snores rumbling through the air. Haruta drifted off peacefully with Ace acting as a hot water bottle beneath him, cuddled against him with one of Thatch’s and Marco’s arms thrown over him from both sides and Ace’s fingers still in his hair. It was blissful warmth and familial love of the likes he had never known, wrapped in a cocoon of softness with his brothers.

Maybe winter islands weren’t so terrible after all.

 

 


	13. Passion (E-rated)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter is rated Explicit for sexual content and features Thatch/Ace. 
> 
> Please avoid if this isn't to your taste (or carry on and explore something new, it's up to you!).

Thatch was an incredibly passionate man. Anyone who knew him would describe him as such.

He had become commander of the fourth division relatively quickly after joining the crew as a young man, taking to the position with ease and enjoying it thoroughly, despite the paperwork. He had been a cook working under the head chef on the island he had been forcibly ‘rescued’ from by the Whitebeard crew, slaving away under conditions that he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy and taking abuse from the middle-aged head chef whenever it took his fancy.

Thatch had flourished under Whitebeard, free from the man who would bellow insults at him while his co-workers watched, finally able to expand upon and develop his natural talent for getting creative in the kitchen. The first meal he had prepared on board the Moby Dick had been one exclusively for his new father, shifting from foot to foot in nervous excitement as Whitebeard had eaten the lot and declared him to be significantly better than he gave himself credit for.

Thatch had worked hard with the other chefs, trained hard in physical combat with Marco, the young man who had successfully recruited him, and proven himself to be loyal and honest and likeable.

What a lot of people in the crew - almost all of them, in fact - did not know was that Thatch’s passion for all things he partook in also extended to more _personal_ endeavours.

But Ace knew. Ace knew it from first-hand experience.

He had instigated it, that first touch when they were alone in the gigantic kitchen. Thatch had dragged Ace down there against his will, insisting that the middle of the night was the perfect time to teach the young man how to properly spice his new gourmet soup recipe. “While everyone else is drunk up top,” Thatch had said with a wink, “so they won’t come down here and interrupt. This is a top secret recipe, lad.”

Ace, who Thatch had failed to notice was a little tipsy himself, had simply reached for a loaf of tomato and poppy seed bread that they had baked earlier and ripped it apart, stuffing it in his mouth and grinning at the sigh this earned from his babysitter.

He hadn’t wanted to learn that turmeric was a surprise key ingredient. He had wanted Thatch.

Ace had stepped in close, too close, and taken Thatch by the chin before the older man had realised what his intentions were. But oh, did he respond to the warm lips pressed to his without hesitation, without question, dropping the wooden spoon into the vast saucepan and sweeping Ace up in his arms as if he had been waiting for this. Maybe he had.

Things did not progress beyond a kiss - Ace had slumped in his arms moments after, fast asleep in an instant and snoring. Thatch had carried him to his own bedroom, torn between laughing and crying, and tucked the young man in for the night while he slept on the floor.

Ace had taken the next chance he got, furious with himself for falling asleep right when he had mustered the courage to act. Damn stupid narcolepsy.

He had invented a reason to get Thatch into one of the storerooms alone - “there’s flour everywhere,  I think there’s mice on board!” - and set upon him instantly. Hungry, desperate lips had claimed Thatch’s own as Ace had pressed into his chest, moaning into Thatch’s mouth when his hands had slid over his ass and gripped him, pulling him in. Ace had come in his shorts, dry-humping against Thatch and allowing the inside of his mouth to be well and truly explored.

That night after dinner, Ace had found himself summoned to that same storeroom by the same chef, his (now clean) shorts ending up pooled around his ankles as Thatch swallowed his length, not stopping or easing off until he had Ace coming down his throat with a hoarse cry.

If he had thought about it in depth - which in a way he did, constantly losing himself to the memory of Ace’s erection sliding wet between his lips - Thatch would have realised that getting swept up with someone who was determined to murder your father was not a very loyal thing to do. Not at all.

Yet he had remained confident that Ace would join them, assured by the way that Ace had definitely been softening up in the recent weeks. Heck, he had even stopped protesting whenever Thatch beckoned him over to act as a fire for the pans, saving the crew precious gas. He had also started eating his meals with the crew, albeit sticking mainly to Thatch, Teach, or Marco, instead of trying to scavenge food while Thatch’s back was turned.

A couple of weeks into their daily - and sometimes twice daily - foray into each other’s mouths in the storeroom, Thatch had found himself ambushed in his bedroom after showering. Ace had kissed him as he pushed Thatch down onto his bed, kicking off his shorts and pulling away the towel that had hung around the chef’s hips. This had been the first time Ace had seen him completely bare, never being allowed to return any favors, always being the one to come down Thatch’s throat or into his palm without touching him back.

“This has been going on long enough now,” Ace had said, straddling Thatch’s lap and gripping his damp hair at the base of his skull, “don’t you think it’s about time for you to put your cock to good use and fuck me?”

Thatch’s resolve, which had held so strong against countless sessions with Ace, had threatened to crumble the instant he felt that hot heat of Ace’s excitement drag heavy along his own. He had groaned, had settled his palms on Ace’s ass and squeezed, pulling him in closer.

Thatch had allowed himself to be guided into a kiss, not letting Ace set a hungry pace this time and instead taking it slow, languid, pulling back as the younger man had become impatient and tried to speed things up.

“No.”

Ace had stilled in his lap at his whisper, tense and confused. Thatch had smiled wide, open, caring.

“No?”

“I don’t sleep with people who still consider me an enemy,” Thatch had said gently, rolling his hips up against Ace’s as he had pulled him down in the same motion, “although I wouldn’t be against making you come from my fingers.”

Ace had rolled his eyes, smiling. “So I have to join to get you to take this the whole way?”

“Mhm.”

Ace had snorted, smirking. “I wonder if you’d be worth it, old man.”

And Thatch had taken that as a challenge, had rolled them over and shoved Ace’s knees up around his ears, had licked him open and soft before feeling Ace’s searing heat from the inside as it had gripped his fingers tight for the first time. Ace had then come into his mouth once again, crying at the dual intensity of Thatch’s talented lips and tongue and the press of fingers sliding firm against his prostate.

Ace had then avoided him for a week, not seeking out Thatch as had been their routine, not coming down to the kitchens to help out or eating in the mess hall with everyone. It had left Thatch hurt, alone with his worries.

And that was precisely when Marco came to find him.

“I spoke to Ace yesterday,” Marco said, leaning against the doorway of the kitchen as Thatch chopped a red pepper with far too much vigor, “about our family.”

“Oh, yeah?” Thatch said, hurt that Ace had clearly been happy to have Marco’s company and not his own, “what happened?”

Marco folded his arms, grin belying just how much he knew about his best friend’s involvement with their fiery guest. “He listened to me and then went to see his ex first mate,” Marco said. Thatch stopped mid-chop, waiting for the rest. It didn’t come. There was more to the story, he could tell, but Marco wasn’t going to spill everything so easily.

“And?”

“And then he came back and asked me to tell him more about why our family is so important to us all,” Marco’s grin widened as Thatch turned around to look at him at last. “So I told him. I told him our stories.”

“You _what?_ ”

“I told him how Pops saved me. How he saved you.”

Thatch sighed, exasperated. “How did it go?”

“Well,” Marco scratched at his stubbly chin, eyes shining with glee, “I think he enjoyed listening. I took him to see Izou after that. Flew him right over to him. You should have heard him scream when I dove.”

“Izou…?”

And it all clicked into place. Thatch held his breath, the significance of Ace going to visit their very own tattoo artist sinking in. There was no way… There had to be another reason.

But Marco’s expression told him there wasn’t.

“You mean he’s—”

Hurried footsteps behind Marco announced the arrival of another person.

The topic of their discussion.

Ace panted as he swung into the kitchen, looking from Thatch to Marco.

“Have you told him?” he asked Marco, cheeks slightly flushed from the exertion. He must have run all the way down here from the deck.

Marco positively beamed at the Fire Fist. “No, and I think you should show him instead.”

Ace was visibly awash with nervous energy as he turned on the spot and showed his back to Thatch. His back that now bore the mark of Whitebeard, huge and fresh and looking very new, as if Izou had only finished it recently.

“What do you think?” Ace said proudly, looking over his shoulder as Thatch gaped at him, “Izou did it last night. I’ve joined the crew!”

“Well,” Thatch said feebly, wishing that Marco would stop looking at him like _that_ , like he knew exactly what this was doing to him, “you’d be pretty stupid to have it done if you weren’t going to join.”

A crash from somewhere above them sounded, followed by cheers from several men. The celebrations had already started without Ace even being present, by the sounds of it.

As Marco left them with a knowing grin to go supervise the nonsense up top, Ace moved in closer to Thatch. He looked up at him through his eyelashes, smile small and alluring.

“I’m not your enemy anymore,” he breathed, conscious that there were other chefs in the enormous kitchen.

Thatch swallowed thickly. “No, you’re not,” he agreed.

Thatch was never one to lie to his brothers, but he found himself doing just that as Ace led him out of the kitchen by the hand, telling them that he wanted to check on the noise up top. No one believed him.

They crashed into Thatch’s room moments later, connected at the lips and moaning against each other’s tongues as they discarded each other’s clothes hastily. Thatch sat on his bed and pulled Ace along after him, arms encircling his waist as the younger man straddled him once again, knowing that this time his offer wouldn’t be rejected.

“I can’t believe you decided to join us just so you could sleep with me,” Thatch teased, dousing his hand in lube and slicking his fingers, “I feel so honored, I really do.”

“Fuck off with that,” Ace laughed, “that’s just an added bonus. Don’t flatter yourself.”

Ace’s breath left him in a sharp exhale at the feel of Thatch’s fingers dragging over his entrance, firm and insistent.

“We can’t have you on your back today,” Thatch said, pressing kisses to Ace’s chest as he rubbed over the tight skin at his fingers, “not with your tattoo being so new.”

Ace’s hum of agreement turned into a keening moan as he was breached, twitching his hips forward and sliding slick up Thatch’s abdomen.

“So wet already,” Thatch groaned into Ace’s neck, working his finger in and out slowly, relishing the way Ace wrapped his arms around his shoulders and held him close, “so _eager_. You’re so gorgeous, Ace.”

Ace arched against him as a second finger joined in alongside the first, stretching him more and making the ache intensify. But he loved it, he had wanted it again so badly every day since the first time he had felt it.

Thatch sat up a little straighter to kiss Ace, pulling him in gently by the nape of his neck to glide soft against his lips. He swirled his tongue against Ace’s, drowning in the deep, urgent groan that issued from him as he eased a third finger inside. Ace panted into Thatch’s mouth as he curled his fingers and rubbed, finding that spot with ease and bringing his partner to a higher level of pleasure.

Ace’s head dropped backwards with a groan when Thatch licked at his left nipple, nipping at it and sucking the hard bud into his mouth. He felt the wet along his stomach increase and his own cock swell at the noise, at the sensation of Ace, so hot, so tight around him.

Thatch removed his fingers slowly and kissed Ace’s neck, bringing his attention forwards again. “You ready?” he asked, searching those dark, lust-lidded eyes intently.

“Yeah,” Ace breathed, grinding down as Thatch rolled up, tip dragging along his slick entrance, “I’m ready. Been ready for weeks.”

Thatch’s hands wandered along the base of Ace’s spine, cupping his ass and pulling him up a little, guiding him into position. Ace’s fingers pressed to the head of his cock, helping guide him inside as Thatch rolled his hips, breath catching in his throat at the feel of the heat pulling him in. Of Ace, of _Ace_ , so beautiful, so strangely endearing, so perfect and finally part of their family.

He tried to keep the pace slow and steady, giving Ace time to adjust, but it was impossible when Ace decided that that wasn’t an option.

Ace’s thighs flexed powerfully alongside Thatch’s, riding him harder and faster with every second, fingers carding into his hair at the back of his head and gasping for breath. Thatch worked in tandem with him, helping lift his hips and pulling him back down onto his cock, spreading his legs a little wider as he sucked Ace’s tongue into his mouth, losing control of himself to the tight heat engulfing him.

It was the most incredible thing he had ever partaken in, without a doubt, pressing in as close as he could as Ace cupped his jawline and held him there, kissing him deeper than ever.

Thatch felt Ace tremble and moan into his mouth before a hot spurt between them coated their abs, painting them pearly white. Ace continued to bounce in Thatch’s lap, gasping and panting and moaning from the oncoming over-stimulation as he strove to work his partner to orgasm. He succeeded, Thatch growling Ace’s name to his tongue as he bucked into him and lost himself to the fog of ecstasy.

Thatch wanted to be cheesy, wanted to give in to the raging tidal wave of affection that drowned him as he looked into Ace’s eyes, seeing it reflected there. He wanted to tell Ace that he loved him, that he had for months, had loved nurturing their friendship, watching Ace become his real self from out of the miserable shell he had hid in. How much he loved his honesty, his cheekiness, his obsession with food and his infectious, radiant personality. How much he loved everything to do with him.

But instead, Thatch kissed Ace slowly, passionately, drinking in the sensation of Ace returning the gesture, soft and pliant and achingly intimate to his touch.

At the end of the day, they were still just them - still just Thatch and Ace with their silly, fun relationship.

“Still can’t believe you joined the crew just to get some dick.”

A loud laugh and a light smack to the back of his head.

“Still can’t believe you ravaged the guy who spent months trying to kill your father.”

Thatch chuckled. Touché.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a big, big fan of Thatch and Ace's friendship. The novel gave us so much precious info and I expired when I read it. These two were clearly incredibly important to each other, but tbh I don't actually ship them (I'll die with Marco/Ace please leave me to rot). However, I can also see it happening...? 
> 
> TL;DR everyone loves Ace except Ace himself.


	14. Routine (M-rated)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M for light sexual content presented as part of a relationship. The focus is entirely on love and care, not on smut. There's not much detail to the sex, but it's there, hence the M rating.
> 
> Marco/Ace.
> 
> I absolutely love this one, I'm not gonna lie.

They loved the quiet days, the calm, relaxing days where nothing much happened. The days between island stops out in open water, between hair-raising adventures and haggling for supplies. The days where no one interrupted the crew’s lazy meander around the New World, protected by their name and status.

Without meaning to, without planning for it, Marco and Ace felt themselves settling into a routine of sorts whenever these calm times came about, which was more frequently than one might believe would befall a Yonko crew.

Ace would always wake with the sun, stretching and curling his toes to the feel of Marco sliding in closer behind him. A soft kiss to his shoulder to let him know he’d woken his lover, a press of that tattooed chest to his own inked back, and Ace would lean into the warmth of the blond commander.

The tickle of fingers along his hip. The deep exhale of breath when Marco pressed his face into Ace’s hair. The lazy slide of a palm along his inevitable morning hard-on. The rock of Marco’s hips into his behind, sliding thick between his thighs as Marco stroked him. Soft, lazy morning sex was Ace’s favorite, the way that Marco would keep the pace so slow, so gentle, licking up his neck as Ace shuddered into release. Nothing could beat this intimacy. The stickiness between his legs was not something he could say he particularly enjoyed, but having Marco groan his name and words of love, half awake, into the sensitive spot behind his ear was worth it.

They showered together every morning when fully awake, Ace humming at the feel of Marco’s fingers working the shampoo into his scalp. Sometimes Thatch would join them in the commanders' shared bathroom, coercing Marco into washing his hair too. Ace always laughed when Thatch whined that Marco pulled at his long hair too much.

They would dry in the sun, weather permitting, sitting together on deck in quiet conversation when Thatch left to tend to breakfast down below deck. Words of nothing, sitting close, occasionally chancing a kiss if they thought no one was watching.

Someone always caught them. Everyone knew. Nobody cared.

If anyone deserved love, it was those two.

Breakfast was consumed eagerly, without fail, on Ace’s part, shovelling down everything that Thatch brought out for him in quantities that should have made him sick. Marco would make do with coffee, occasionally toast, if the sight of Ace choking on his bacon didn’t make him nauseous. They had learned through trial and error not to talk when Ace was in mid-flow, avoiding a narcoleptic attack wherever possible. It didn’t always stave them off, though, and Marco would grab Ace’s face automatically to stop him dropping into his plate.

Goodbye kisses before they went about their duties. Soft, warm lips peppering love to Marco’s eyes, his cheeks, his jawline. Fingers carding affectionately through Ace’s thick hair. A smile pressed into a grin.

Tender.

Marco thought of Ace as he tended to any patients in the medical bay, diagnosing and prescribing and listening to their worries. He would try to remain focused as the nurses handed over to him, really he would, would try to remain professional in the face of his staff and friends. He was better at retaining focus than Ace was, significantly so, but he still got himself caught staring at notes and charts with a glazed, vacant expression more regularly than he should.

Ace thought of Marco as he rounded up his division and led their morning workout and hand-to-hand training at the stern, humiliated every time he lost focus and allowed himself to get kicked in the head, the chest, the back by his subordinates. He insisted that they were just better than him at this stuff, what with actually being able to land hits on a Logia user. They knew his mind was elsewhere - some knowing where precisely, some thinking it was down in the kitchens.

They liked to pack up lunch for the two of them at midday and set off on Ace’s Striker, Marco allowing his sandals to skim along the waves as he sat on the little bow. Sometimes, when he felt the need to stretch out and, honestly, show off for Ace, he would transform and fly alongside his love, serene and elegant and impossibly beautiful. They would eat surrounded by the open water, laughing at tales of their pasts, reminiscing their younger years, tentatively and carefully tiptoeing into thoughts of their future. Some days they simply recited the mantra that Pops would become the Pirate King. Other days Marco would want to drown himself when he let slip something sentimental.

_“I’d like to get married one day.”_

_“Oh? To who?”_

_“Who else?”_

They would arrive home several hours later in various states of embarrassment whenever one or both steered their conversations too romantic, Marco spontaneously popping blue feathers from his skin and Ace keeping his fellow pirates well away with accidental flashes of fire along his arms.

After dinner was always, _always_ family time. They couldn’t escape it, even if they had wanted to. Family time meant alcohol, and alcohol meant games of strip poker that were rigged against the favorite of the day, or games of Old Maid that resulted in crew members getting tied upside-down to the masts. Pops would mediate arm wrestling matches, betting his sake to go to the winner and then knocking it back himself when his victorious son came to claim his prize.

Laughter surrounded the two at all times, returning affection to their brothers as it was received. Ace did not feel threatened when Thatch got too cuddly and climbed drunkenly into Marco’s lap. Marco did not worry when Izou grabbed Ace’s cheeks and kissed him full on the lips.

They were secure. Mellowed.

Safe in their feelings for one another.

Some nights they would get back to one of their rooms so drunk they could barely make it through the door; indeed, on one particular night neither of them could figure out how to work the door handle and had slept in the corridor. That had been interesting.

And some nights they stayed sober enough to wrap around each other again, collapsing into bed and melting into one amongst the kisses and wondering hands.

Marco on his back, thighs gripping Ace’s waist as they rocked.

Ace on his knees, sobbing his lover’s name into the pillow.

It never mattered how it played out, how it began - it always ended the same way without fail.

_“I love you.”_

_“I love you more.”_

Sleep would come for them, curled up together in bed. Hidden from the crew. Senses and minds filled only with each other, full of the other man’s gentle breathing, the rise and fall of their chests.

A kiss to Ace’s freckles. A palm to Marco’s back, pulling him in closer.

And they would do it all again tomorrow, and the tomorrow after, and all of their tomorrows they were granted.

Peace laced with love. Love gained in the hold of the phoenix and his flame.

 

 


	15. Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marco/Ace with Funny and Fluff. Yay!
> 
> Mentions of sex but that's all it is; mentions. Nothing is "shown".

Ace groaned loudly, deliberately exaggerating the sound, as he crawled onto Marco’s bed and flopped down. Everything hurt so much. He’d overdone it again and now he was paying for it.

“I told you to calm down,” Marco chided him, bending to pull off Ace’s boots before he got dirt on the clean sheets, “but no, you just had to show off and overhead press that extra 50kg.” Ace groaned into the pillows, louder this time in response to Marco scolding him, though his voice was muffled.

“I’m strong enough to take it,” he shot back, not raising his face as his second boot was tugged off, “I lifted it, didn’t I?”

“Sure,” Marco replied, smacking his ass lightly to get the younger man to raise his hips enough to let Marco pull his shorts off; Ace clearly wasn’t going to be undressing himself, and Marco was damned if he was going to let him wear his sweat-soaked clothes to bed, “but look at yourself. You didn’t cool down properly, either, so you’re stiff as a board. Why do I have to keep reminding you how to work out properly?”

“Yeah, yeah, all right,” Ace grumbled, dropping his hips with a sigh as Marco freed him from his shorts, “but 50kg’s nothing, that’s not much more than most of the nurses weigh and I’ve picked up three of them before.”

“Yeah, but on top of the 200kg you were waving about already? You need to work up to weights like that, not start out with them. I’m amazed your spine didn’t snap.”

Ace turned his face in the pillow, eyeing Marco with a cheeky grin from under his mess of black hair. “Check out these guns, though,” he said, flexing his bicep only to immediately grunt in pain.

Marco sighed, “yes, while your discomfort is truly fascinating, I am going to have to physically restrain you next time you do something like that.”

Ace huffed, feeling the bed dip as Marco sat next to him. Truth was all he had wanted to do was show off in front of the other commander; he had been doing fine until Marco had walked into the gym. Now instead of strutting for him he was getting lectured by him.

“So what now?” Ace asked, forgoing sitting up as his back muscles seemed to cramp at the mere thought; now he was down, he was down for the night, at least. “Are you gonna leave me here to fend for myself? What if we get attacked and I’m immobile? Shame on you, Marco.”

Marco snorted. “I’ve asked Thatch to bring you some dinner down here.” He shot Ace his best shit-eating grin, eyes twinkling, “and don’t worry, I’ll stay right here and feed you every bite, since you probably can’t sit up. Would you prefer choo-choo trains or brum-brum cars?”

“Oh, trains, definitely,” Ace laughed, nudging Marco in the back with his knee - moving more than that would probably hurt too much.

Marco chuckled as he stood, pulling open his bedside drawer and searching for something. Ace gasped comically, eyes wide.

“Sex while I’m unable to move? You freaky thing, Marco. You know you can do whatever you like to me at any time, you don’t need to wait until I’m down for the count. Unless it’s _really_ weird - man, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Ha, very funny,” Marco said tonelessly, finding what he was looking for and shutting the drawer with a snap. He showed the little bottle of oil to Ace, holding it close enough for him to read the label. “I’ll give you a massage while we wait for Thatch, it’ll help loosen up your muscles.”

Ace’s eyes lit up; having Marco touch him was always a good thing. “I’ll be able to move without hurting after that?”

Marco shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Such concern for your beloved,” Ace pouted as Marco popped the cap off the bottle and sat back down beside him on the bed.

“More like ‘I have no patience for people whose injuries are entirely self-inflicted’,” Marco hummed, pouring an ample amount of the oil into the dip in Ace’s lower spine.

Ace shuddered at the cold, relaxing quickly to the feel of Marco’s fingers spreading the liquid out over his warm skin. “Don’t treat me like a patient,” he grumbled, “I only wanted to look good for you.”

Marco’s heart squeezed at Ace’s open honesty. “You always look good to me, though. You don’t need to get my attention by doing silly things.”

Ace’s cheeks flushed pink and he turned his face back into the pillow, his exaggerated sigh muffled into the fabric. Marco just chuckled at him; he really was too cute.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” Marco said, “I’ll start with your lower back, all right?”

“Just admit you want to fondle my ass and be done with it,” the grin on Ace’s lips was all too clear through his muffled voice.

“OK then, I’ll be starting with your shoulders instead.”

“Aw, Marco!” Ace whined, shaking his bare behind in protest, begging Marco to touch it, “don’t be like that!”

Marco still clearly remembered the first time he had discovered Ace didn’t always wear underwear - his heart had never quite recovered from the shock of when they had been playing Drunk Strip Poker with the other commanders and Ace, inebriated, had stood and yanked down his shorts to reveal absolutely nothing beneath. Marco had never moved so fast to tug _up_ a pair of shorts in all his life.

Marco grinned and gave Ace a light tap on each wriggling cheek, stilling his movements. “OK, OK, now lie still before you hurt yourself further.”

He pressed his thumbs into either side of the base of his spine, rubbing firm, smooth circles into the tight muscle below. Ace immediately relaxed into the touch, exhaling loudly with satisfaction. He groaned as Marco’s fingers splayed over him, rubbing up into both of the obliques.

“Oh,” Ace moaned, back arching slightly at the firm press of Marco’s fingers and palms into his rigid muscles, “shit, Marco, that feels so _good_.”

Ace, Marco knew intimately well, was loud in bed. He was also a talker, always telling Marco exactly what felt good and what he wanted him to do more of, never one to keep his voice restrained when the passion built. Marco liked this, not having worrying about being overheard - his room was between Ace’s and a store room, so as long as they kept their activities to his bedroom then no one need ever hear them unless they had the misfortune of wondering down the commander’s corridor for whatever reason.

So, really, it didn’t come as much of a surprise that Ace was also vocal when being massaged, despite the distinct lack of a sexual setting. The guy just appreciated being touched, apparently.

Ace groaned low in his throat as Marco’s thumbs worked at the large lats up his sides, rubbing the knots in the muscles out with skilled precision. “Fuck, Marco, there, that bit there, do it harder—”

A loud knock at the door made them both jump; neither of them had heard any footsteps approaching.

“Uh,” came Thatch’s obviously mortified voice through the wood, “Ace? I’ve got your dinner here but, um…”

Marco sighed. Poor Thatch could clearly hear Ace from out there and had understandably misunderstood what was going on. Marco couldn’t blame him - Ace wasn’t exactly quiet - although he had to admire the man’s bravery for opting to interrupt what must sound to him like a full on sex session.

“Thatch,” Marco called to him, “it’s fine, you can—”

“Oh, Marco, _yes!_ ” Ace lifted his head from the pillow, eyes alive with mischief and grin in place to match, “do it harder!” he shouted, deliberate, catching Marco’s eye over his shoulder and giggling silently, “right there, Marco, fuck me into the floor!”

He was going to put him _through_ the floor and into the sea way below if he had any say in the matter, the little shit.

Ace cackled evilly as they heard Thatch put the tray of food on the floor outside in a hurry and dash away, clearly having absolutely no desire to listen to whatever he thought was going on inside his best friend’s room.

Marco sighed and pinched Ace’s buttcheek, earning a yelp of surprise. “That was cruel,” he scolded as Ace started laughing into the pillow in earnest, shoulders shaking with the effort, “you know he’ll probably avoid us for a week now.”

“Sorry,” Ace laughed, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it, he was basically asking for it.”

“Well, at least that will clear up any doubt the crew had about us, I suppose,” Marco said, standing up, “Thatch won’t be able to keep that to himself.”

“Huh, I didn’t think of that. Vista’s gonna owe me a lot now.”

Marco laughed as he opened the door to retrieve Ace’s dinner, shutting it with a snap again. “You seriously bet on whether we’re together?”

“Mhm,” Ace grinned at him, “I told Vista we are, and he flat out didn’t believe me, said there was no way you’d be ‘taken in by a boy like me’, so we bet on it.”

Marco wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or offended. “You told Vista?”

“Yeah, but only because he was adamant that you had never fallen in love with anyone, and I told him that you love me, so he was wrong, and then he didn’t believe me, so…” Ace trailed off, looking quite pleased with himself.

Marco brushed Ace’s hair off his face and leaned down, kissing him softly. “You’re right,” he said softly, “I do love you.” He straightened up again, hands on his hips, “now which do you want first: dinner, or carry on with the massage?”

“Can you feed me _and_ massage me at the same time?”

Marco grinned at Ace’s eager expression. He really was simply too cute for his own good.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, the world record for the lift Ace was doing is 220kg (or was in 2012). Dude is strong ♥


	16. Care

Ace hissed as the wound on his shoulder was dabbed, trying to shrug away only to be tugged back into position by Deuce. He winced, biting his lip as his former first mate tended to the relatively large cut, cleaning it as he inspected it.

“The good news is you’ll live,” Deuce informed him dryly, completely lacking any sympathy in the face of the younger man’s pain, “the bad news is you need stitches.”

Vista shifted his weight from foot to foot from just behind Ace, watching the two intently, concern wholly evident on his face as Deuce changed out the bloodied gauze sponge for a fresh one. Guilt racked the big man when Ace cried, “ _fuck_ , Deuce, can’t you be a bit gentler?” in response to the doctor pressing the new gauze against the wound.

“No, I can’t,” was the snappy reply, and Ace shot him a mean look which was returned tenfold.

As reassuring as it was to see Deuce so dismissive - and thus confirming there was nothing to worry about - of Ace’s pain, Vista was in turmoil. It was his fault that Ace had been injured, after all. He had happily accepted the other commander’s invite to spar, jumping at the chance to practice against a powerful Logia user whose favorite form of defence was even more offence. He had not bet on besting Ace with his haki, though, and had certainly not expected for his right sword to make contact with the back of Ace’s left shoulder when it did.

“And do you want to know the worst news?” Deuce asked, snapping Vista’s attention back to him again.

“Not really,” Ace shot back, trying to look at the deep cut but finding the gauze in the way.

“The anaesthetic we have on board is strictly for Pops’ use, should he need it, or for life-threatening emergencies.” Deuce’s face split into an evil grin as understanding dawned on Ace. “Which means you’ll be getting your stitches without anything to numb the pain.”

“Now hold on just a—” Vista started angrily, shocked that Deuce would even suggest doing anything so insensitive to his former captain.

But Ace just shot back a grin of his own, challenging and defiant. “Yeah?” he goaded, “I’d like to see you try. I’ll barbecue you before you can get close.”

“Always such a brat.” Deuce shrugged in mock resignation. “Enjoy your slow death via sepsis,” he sighed, reaching to take away the gauze, “guess you won’t want my assistance any further, then.”

But Vista laid a hand over the gauze, stopping Deuce from touching it. Vista looked stricken, shocked by how easily and carelessly Deuce was giving up on his patient, his previously high opinion of their newest doctor plummeting down to the sea.

“This cut is deep,” Vista said, trying his best to keep the anger out of his voice as Deuce stared up at him in surprise, “I know, I felt the tug on my blade as it made contact. While I must confess I am deeply ashamed that I am the one who hurt him, I will also not allow any further harm to come to this boy.” Vista laid a protective palm to Ace’s uninjured shoulder, squeezing it tight. “Please, somehow find it in your heart to help him.”

The response that Vista got was definitely not what he expected.

Ace snorted in barely repressed laughter as the corners of Deuce’s mouth twitched, fighting back a smile. Vista looked from the doctor to Ace, utterly nonplussed by their reactions and the sudden change in atmosphere between them.

“Sorry, Vista,” Ace said as his giggles subsided, laying a reassuring palm atop of Vista’s at his shoulder, looking up at him, “he’s not really going to leave me to suffer. Honestly.”

“Ace made the huge mistake of revealing he doesn’t like needles before we joined you,” Deuce elaborated, fighting down the urge to laugh at Vista’s open bewilderment, “so it was always sort of an in-joke that I would stab him with them at any opportunity. Although in this case, I _am_ tempted to just leave you to your own devices,” Deuce’s gaze flicked back to Ace, “you damn idiot, getting yourself hit during sparring. What’s wrong with you?”

Ace ignored him and hopped off the hospital bed he was sitting on, marching to the door of the medical bay and pulling it open as he said to Vista, “and have you forgotten about our other senior doctor on board?”

Vista blinked, stunned, as Ace grinned knowingly at him. He had, in his panic of being the root cause for Ace’s apparent suffering, actually forgotten entirely.

“Hey, Marco,” Ace called into the study next door, “Marco? You in there? Can you be a dear and heal my shoulder for me?”

Vista followed Ace out of the room like a protective guard dog, glaring at Deuce as he trotted after his much smaller master. Deuce huffed in amusement, raising an eyebrow as Vista’s cloak whipped out of sight; Ace had those commanders wrapped around his little finger already, and he knew it.

“No I won’t kindly fuck off and leave you alone!” Ace’s voice exploded through the open door.

Ah. Maybe not all of them.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little one to explore Ace and Deuce's dynamics with Vista being a darling.


	17. Envy

Ace frowned at the blonde, busty nurse in her tight pink uniform from the other side of the vast deck, bringing his tankard up to his lips slowly to take a long gulp. She was beautiful, probably the most beautiful of all of the nurses who tended to their father, what with her long, silky hair, her high cheek bones, and her curvaceous hourglass body shape. Ace knew her to be a really nice person as well, not one to take shit from Pops when he tried to turn on the charm, just to complete her perfect little package.

Which made hating her in that moment so much harder… But he somehow found a way.

A wail of despair from one of his division momentarily pulled Ace’s attention back to what he was meant to be doing, seeing that it was Johnson the Unlucky who had just lost everything he had bet on this round of poker. Hendry, a middle-aged man with exceptionally hairy forearms, grinned almost manically as he raked in his winnings.

“Better luck next time, my friend,” he said, his tone distinctly lacking in sympathy for his brother. Johnson responded by necking the beer in his tankard and slamming it down on the crate between them that acted as their makeshift table.

“Another round!” Johnson roared, cheeks rosy, alerting Ace to the fact that maybe it was time for Johnson to stop drinking and head to bed, but when had he ever been one to step in the way of a man regaining his dignity through a game of cards?

Ace declined being included in the next round, flicking his cards back to Hendry to deal. He ignored their protests and got up, wending his way through the drunken piles of pirates everywhere to the side of the ship, leaning against it as he focused his attention back on that nurse.

She had the audacity - yes, _audacity_  - to be leaning over Marco’s shoulder where he sat at Pops’ feet, reading whatever it was that he was showing her. If he happened to turn to look at her, the first mate would definitely get a face full of cleavage, and this did not sit well with Ace.

“Ace!” Thatch called to him, stepping around a particularly drunk pair from the sixteenth division who had come over from their usual ship. He slipped, staggered, and crashed into Ace gracelessly, almost sending them both toppling over the side and into the sea below.

“Steady,” Ace chuckled, holding onto Thatch as the taller man regained his balance, grabbing Ace around the neck.

Thatch jabbed him in the chest, eyes a little glazed from the alcohol and speech slightly slurred, “you,” he said loudly but leaning in closer as if he were whispering, “have been staring at Sonya all night. I know. I saw you. What gives?”

Ace looked back to the pair, and as if on cue, Sonya the nurse leaned in to whisper something to Marco’s ear. Ace felt a muscle in his jaw twitch at the way Sonya’s long-nailed hand skirted over Marco’s shoulder, holding him closer as he laughed at whatever the hell she was saying to him.

Marco looked far too happy with her draped over him like that.

“Nothing,” Ace said gruffly, “I haven’t been staring at her.”  
  
”Mate, you’re doing it right now.”

Thatch watched them too, eyes slowly growing wider as understanding seemed to process. Ace all but confirmed his suspicions by snarling as Marco pulled away slightly to look at the nurse, and, yep, just as Ace had known he would, Marco found himself staring at her ample breasts. Thatch started to vibrate with suppressed mirth as Marco and Sonya laughed openly at Marco’s compromising position.

“Oh, Acey-boy,” Thatch wheezed, slapping Ace on the arm, “baby, no, seriously, she is _way_ out of your league.”

“I know, but I can’t help— Eh?” He looked at Thatch, confused. “She?”

“Sonya! She won’t have you, mate. She won’t touch the crew, she treats us like we’re vile and diseased; I know, I’ve tried.”

“You mean she won’t touch _you_ , not the rest of the guys,” Ace muttered, noting how she seemed perfectly happy to run her manicured fingers all over Marco right now.

“No, no, my lad,” Thatch shook his head, misunderstanding, “just don’t even go there, you’ll only get shot down. Hey, Haruta! _Haruta!_ ”

Ace startled as Thatch bellowed into the mass of pirates, summoning their fellow commander as he popped up some distance away. Thatch beckoned him over, waving frantically until Haruta had picked his way through the men at his feet over to them.

“What?” he asked, looking from relatively sober Ace to almost-drunk-enough-to-be-a-liability Thatch.

“Tell Ace that Sonya won’t sleep with him.”

Haruta raised his eyebrows as Ace sighed long and loud. Perhaps it was better for him if Thatch insisted on misunderstanding.

“Sonya won’t sleep with you,” Haruta said flatly, “and Ace won’t sleep with her,” he added to Thatch, looking at him like this should have been incredibly common knowledge. “Everyone wins, right? Well, except you, of course. Poor thing, getting turned down like that in front of your entire division. Even Pops laughed at you.”

Thatch and Haruta lapsed into a heated argument, leaving Ace to grumble under his breath at the pair he was staring daggers at. Yes, all right, he supposed it wasn’t outside the realms of plausible that Marco would have a good relationship with the nurses, what with being their clinical lead and everything… But it should be _him_ laughing with Marco like that, _him_ sneakily trailing his fingers further and further over the ridge of Marco’s shoulder, inching down to his chest—

Ace’s blood felt like it was boiling.

“What does she have that I don’t?” Ace interjected into Thatch and Haruta’s conversation about Thatch’s embarrassing mess of a sex life, his tone unusually sullen and whiny. Haruta smirked wide.

“A medical degree, for starters,” Haruta said unhelpfully, and then quick as a flash he was directly in front of Ace. Haruta lunged forwards and grabbed at Ace’s bare chest with both of his palms, groping him as he laughed, “and she has boobies, too!”

Ace yelped in surprise, the sound quickly turning to laughter as he twisted and squirmed, trying to break away from Haruta’s grip. “Get off!” he cried, “Haruta, seriously, that tickles!”

“Not fair! Lemme feel Ace’s lack of boobies too!” Thatch joined in, grabbing at him as well and making Ace shriek with laughter.

They had chosen the wrong moment to begin relentlessly tickling Ace, as he missed Marco removing Sonya’s hand from himself with a somewhat apologetic smile at her look of rejection.

Ace’s screams and wails of laughter caught Marco’s attention though, loud enough to be heard even above the noise of the crew, and he snorted a laugh at the sight of their newest commander getting thoroughly and mercilessly attacked.

What he wouldn’t give to be able to go over there and replace Thatch and Haruta’s hands with his own…

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is there anything you'd like to see in this collection? I have a list of prompts I'm working though, but I think I'm slowly approaching a writer's block (although I still have a few ideas left!) and so am open to suggestions! I keep naturally leaning towards my two enormous biases (Ace-centric and Marco/Ace) and I want to write away from those if at all possible!


	18. Down

“OK!” shouted Haruta, raising a hand to get the attention of his assembled competitors, “who here needs me to go through the rules?”

“What’s there to not understand?” Ace asked, perplexed that anyone couldn’t grasp the concept of their newest game. “Shove opponent, opponent goes down, you win, crack open a cold one with Pops.”

“Yeah, Haruta,” Thatch agreed, shifting his and Marco’s weight with a great slosh of sea water around him, “we know the rules.”

Izou sighed. He had been roped into yet another of their stupid games to pass the time on shore while that new gaping hole in the Moby Dick was fixed by the carpenters of the third division - it had been a hellacious storm and their poor watch hadn’t seen the reef approaching - and he was beginning to regret it.

He still wasn’t quite sure how Haruta had managed it, but he had talked Izou into joining them in what could only be described as possibly the most poorly thought out wrestling match ever. Ace and Marco, the two who could not swim and would drown upon slipping into the sea - of _course_ , the idiots - were sitting astride the shoulders of Izou himself and Thatch, two of the commanders who would _not_ die slowly if they found themselves collapsing into the water.

They - Izou, Thatch, and Haruta, their referee - were only waist-deep in the shallows of the sun-warmed sea, their footing below unsteady in the loose, soft sand, and the gentle current pulled at their hips just enough to add to Izou’s general feeling of impending doom. He sure hoped Ace didn’t mind suffering the effects of the sea when the inevitable happened and he dropped him.

They’d all played plenty of stupid games and pulled numerous pranks on each other when times dragged slow, but this had to be one of the worst thought out of the lot.

“Rule number one!” Haruta shouted over Thatch and Ace’s combined groans, “bottoms are to keep their hands on their tops’ shins at all times—”

“For God’s sake, Haruta, don’t call me a bottom,” Thatch snapped, slapping Marco’s knee as the blond snickered above him.

“—and letting go to push, shove, touch or otherwise distract the opposition will result in forfeit of the match,” Haruta continued as if Thatch hadn’t spoken.

Izou gripped Ace’s shins firmly, biting back the urge to snap at the young man when he grabbed his head to steady himself. “Oops, sorry Izou, I messed up your hair a bit.” Izou was sorely tempted to dunk Ace backwards right now, but that would remove the fun of kicking Thatch’s feet from underneath him and watching him flounder under Marco’s sudden dead weight. No, he had not forgiven the chef for recently sneezing into his loose mineral powder and covering himself in it, thank you very much.

Izou would see this stupid game through, even if it meant listening to Pops’ rumbling laugh continuously rolling through the air from the shore where he lay in the shade of an immense beach umbrella. A number of the crew lounged with him, yelling bets and jeering insults at the commanders’ current source of entertainment. Oh, the humiliation.

“Rule number two!” Haruta continued, his eyes following Marco’s hands as he cracked his knuckles into his palm threateningly, smirking at Ace, “no devil fruit abilities are permitted! If I see any flames from either of you, you’re disqualified!”

“What?!” the two ‘tops’ yelled in unison, not catching how Thatch and Izou sighed a breath of relief.

“You mean I can’t set his stupid hair on fire?!”

“I can’t just blow them over with my wings?”

“Nope!” Haruta said cheerfully, “and no other special abilities or fighting styles you may have miraculously kept secret until this moment. Just good ol’ grappling with your hands. Such fun!”

Marco and Ace glared at each other, their brotherly bond discarded in that moment. Izou held back a snort of laughter at how serious Marco looked; Thatch didn’t quite manage the same, openly laughing at Ace opposite him.

“Wait, ref, objection!” Ace called.

“Let’s hear it,” Haruta allowed.

“Marco’s taller than me, and Thatch is taller than Izou, so they’ve got a massive advantage over us,” Ace pointed out, “I demand I swap to Thatch.”

“Objection overruled,” Haruta shrugged as Izou prepared to do the honors and bodily throw Ace at Thatch if he wanted to swap so badly, “you both chose your bottoms fairly, you gotta live with it.”

“Haruta, I’m begging you, don’t ever say that word again,” Thatch whined.

“Would you stop moving?” Marco grumbled as Thatch twisted to scratch his bare back, copying Ace’s earlier action and grabbing at Thatch’s hair, “I feel like I’m gonna fall.”

“Get your fingers outta my hair, you’ll ruin it!”

Izou rolled his eyes. They were never going to start if everyone kept getting distracted, and he was acutely aware of the fact that he was exposing so much of himself to the sun right now. The others may all be happy to get tanned from their lack of clothing above the hips, but Izou very much wanted to avoid that look.

“Ding ding ding, let the match commence,” he said flatly, initiating the fight himself; Haruta looked like he was gearing up for a third rule, and Marco and Thatch were working themselves into an argument.

He lunged, or as best he could under Ace’s weight and in the sea, and Ace was thankfully quicker to respond to the change in events than Marco was. Ace reached out, his abdomen pressing into Izou’s hair (much to his annoyance) as he made to shove Marco in the shoulder but was blocked by a hastily brought up forearm.

Thatch staggered back a pace, movement slow in the water, shock evident on his face at how unsteady he was. Izou felt it too, the added weight on his shoulders throwing his centre of balance off badly.

Ace lunged again, smirking, using his bare feet to cling tight to Izou’s sides as he managed to give Marco an almighty push in the chest. “C’mon, Turkey!” he laughed, deliberately whipping up some fighting spirit in the opposition, “don’t you want to win a day off from chores? Or is your bottom too lazy to pull his weight and help you?”

Thatch spluttered, raging at the label, and finally moved in retaliation. Izou managed to hold his position as the two fools flailed above them, the soles of his feet digging deep into the sand as Ace and Marco shoved, hit, and slapped at each other. It sounded more like a fight between two children than anything else, full of insults and yelps of pain from both sides at the contact.

“Contestant Marco is putting up a fight now!” Haruta called out gleefully, talking into his protruding thumb from his fist as if it were a microphone, “he blocks a slap from Ace - really, Ace, a slap? - and returns one of his own, I don’t know why these two men insist on fighting like eight-year-olds but there we have it! Oh, now Ace has shoved Marco back and, oh no, it looks like Thatch might be struggling down there!”

Izou had surged forwards, getting up in Thatch’s personal space and driving Ace closer. “You look ridiculous,” he panted at Thatch, looking over his messed up hair around his face sandwiched between Marco’s thighs.

“You don’t look so hot yourself,” Thatch smirked, “enjoying your position, are you?”

Izou jutted his chin out in defiance, returning that shitty grin. “About as much as you are,” he sneered, fighting the temptation to let go of Ace’s legs and just drop Thatch to the sea floor in that second.

It all happened at once in a single split second. Izou kicked out at Thatch under the water and away from Haruta’s keen eyes, just has he had planned, and made contact, but the pull of the sea threw him off course ever so slightly and Thatch managed to pin his foot between his knees.

At the same time, Marco actually caught hold of Ace for long enough to give him a proper, firm shove, and Ace twisted away with the motion.

And Izou was dragged down.

And so was Thatch, pulled off balance by Izou’s foot tugging at the back of his knee.

Haruta braced his arms over his face at the almighty splash as the four commanders toppled over and hit the water with combined shouts of alarm. He shook his now sopping hair out of his eyes to the sound of Whitebeard laughing himself hoarse on the shore, the sea around him disturbed once again as Thatch and Izou wrenched themselves free from their burdens and resurfaced, coughing.

“We won!” Thatch yelled, looking triumphant as he ran a hand through his ruined hair, “suck on it, Izou, we’ll be taking our chore-free day tomorrow - you two get to scrub the tables in the mess hall and collect all the dirty plates—”

“You suck on _this_ ,” Izou spat, thrusting his middle finger into Thatch’s grinning face, “you fell down too! Neither of us won! Right, Haruta?”

“They went down a moment before we did! C’mon ref, tell him!”

Haruta pondered, stroking his chin in mock deep thought and humming loudly, dragging out the moment of revelation.

“Ref rules that you both fell at the same time,” Haruta concluded, looking between Izou’s smug grin and Thatch’s look of indignant outrage, “so you both suck and get to share out my chores instead.”

The commanders exploded at him.

“What the fuck, that’s not fair!”

“Boo! Bad ref! I demand a rematch!”

Bubbles blossomed up on the surface of the sea between them, catching Izou’s attention first and then Thatch and Haruta’s. They looked at each other slowly, realising.

“Ref?” Thatch asked casually, “are there any rules about rescuing our boys from drowning in the event of them both going down?”

Haruta considered the question for a moment. “Ref rules - give them a few more seconds.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Being Izou is suffering. But deep down he loves it, otherwise he wouldn't join in ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	19. Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marco/Ace lovey-dovey ♥

Ace had never been to a wedding before. He knew, vaguely, how they went, and understood the gist of the ceremony. But he had not been ready for the feelings that accompanied the whole thing.

The brother of one of his division had invited the entire Whitebeard crew to their home island to celebrate the happy occasion, and, apparently, had not believed for a moment that every single one of the sixteen-hundred-strong pirate crew would turn up. The poor groom had assumed his brother and perhaps his closest friends would make an appearance, having not bet on Whitebeard’s insistence that they plot a course for Espiloc island and all find something smart to wear forthwith.

The bride had looked positively faint as they had all disembarked from their various ships in an array of dress - Thatch and Izou looked positively dapper in their sharp suits and perfectly combed hair, while Blenheim, for example, had been unable to find anything smart that fit him and thus improvised with a few tablecloths bound together.

But they had come together to support the brother of one of their own, and that was what counted. That, and the fact that they had brought food and drink enough to take care of themselves, thankfully.

Ace tugged at the collar of his shirt, feeling better now that he had undone the top button but wishing he could just take the damn thing off. The look that Thatch gave him made him stop, glaring at the chef from the corner of his eye. The registrar droned on and on, his words indiscernible this far back in the crowd, and Ace’s thoughts were starting to drift away to the copious amounts of food that waited for them. Pops had made them all swear that they would not start any food fights or games of strip poker, and while Pops had faith that his men would behave themselves, Ace and the other commanders did not share that iron-clad belief.

He started as he felt fingers slide into his palm, carefully lacing between his own and holding his hand. Ace looked up at Marco on his left, returning the small smile that the blond flashed him. Ace squeezed his fingers affectionately, his smile broadening as Marco copied him. They were all packed so close together that no one around them would notice… hopefully.

They both declined to let go of each other as the bride and groom finally kissed, the men around them clapping furiously and whistling. Instead, Marco lent down and muttered, “it would be nice if that could be us.”

Ace nodded, his smile slipping a little at the bittersweet implication of those words. Married life wasn’t a route that they could hope to embark on, yet Marco clearly wanted it to be so.

Perhaps that love alone was enough for them.

But no, Ace admitted to himself much later on into the evening as the newlyweds took to the dancefloor for their first dance, no, he _wanted_ to be bound to Marco. He wanted to show the world that they loved each other implicitly, that he was taken, that Marco was his beloved, that they didn’t want or need anyone else in that regard.

He leaned against Marco’s arm as they watched the couple twirl in each other’s arms so happily, so beautiful, and he felt a pang of envy.

“Why can’t it be us?” Ace asked quietly, almost hoping that Marco wouldn’t hear him, but he did, of course. Marco never missed anything when it came to Ace.

He knew the reason why, of course - pirates didn’t marry. Especially not pirates from the same crew, and _especially_ not pirates from a crew who considered all on board to be siblings. Not to mention the fact that no ordained minister or registrar would ever conduct a legally binding ceremony for two pirates.

Marco simply smiled, placing his hand to the small of Ace’s back that was miraculously still covered by his shirt. “Because the world isn’t ready for our babies,” he joked. Ace frowned and elbowed him in the ribs, earning a yelp. “OK, OK, sorry, that was in poor taste.”

They watched Thatch sweep up one of the bridesmaids in his arms and lead her into a dance, her hair shining in the multicolored lights as she threw her head back and laughed. The rest of the men seemed to be behaving themselves as well; no one was naked or covered in splatterings of food yet, at least.

“Come with me,” Marco said suddenly, turning away from the dancefloor and taking Ace by the hand, “let’s get away from here for a moment.”

Ace let himself be led away from the music and crowd, bewildered. Marco took them out into the grounds of the luxurious hotel that was hosting the wedding, wending his way along a row of hedges before stopping at a bench. They were alone, no one drunk enough to be wandering around in a stupor just yet, but it would come at some point, no doubt.

“What’s going on?” Ace asked, sitting down beside Marco, “this must be important if you voluntarily walked away from watching Thatch potentially embarrass himself. You’re not about to break up with me, are you?”

Marco smiled fondly, reaching out to Ace and running his fingers through his hair.

“Far from it,” he said softly.

He guided Ace closer, fingers sliding down to his jawline and tilting his chin up before kissing him slowly. Ace leaned into the kiss, humming at the feeling of Marco’s lips to his own. He wasn’t used to kissing Marco outside where anyone could see them, but he found he liked it.

“Ace,” Marco said, breaking the kiss but keeping him close, “I love you.”

Ace bumped his forehead to Marco’s, smiling. “I know. And I love you.”

“And these last two years with you have been incredible.”

“Mhm.”

Marco took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, seeming to build up to something. “You know we can’t legally get married.”

Ace shrugged. “Not like anything we do is legal, let’s be honest.”

“No,” Marco chuckled, “I guess you’re right.” He paused again, looking into Ace’s dark gray eyes, and Ace saw a flutter of nerves there. So he took the lead instead, knowing where Marco was going with this because it was exactly what he wanted to say, too.

“But even so, I want to be with you forever. Exclusively you,” Ace said, shifting a little closer still, laying his hand over Marco’s on the bench. “So… even if it’s not real…”

“It is,” Marco said quietly, closing his eyes, “I don’t need a ring and a piece of paper to tell me that it’s real. Even though I’d like that, and I know that you want that, I don’t think it’s a necessary part of pledging yourself to someone for the rest of your life.”

Ace’s breath caught in his chest, his fingers tingling with nerves as Marco kissed him again, amazed that they were finally having this conversation and finding it so _easy_. They had brought it up before, had joked about it and danced around the subject plenty of times, but witnessing a wedding first-hand had brought out a boldness that had yet to be seen properly in both of them.

“So…”

Yet Marco seemed to be struggling, his cheeks dusted pink as he avoided Ace’s searching gaze, keeping his eyes closed despite their foreheads still being connected.

Ace grabbed Marco’s cheeks and squeezed them - that got Marco to look at him, bemused. Ace grinned at him, bright and wide.

“So let’s do it now,” he said happily, “I’ll go first.”

“What? No, I wanted to say my bit,” Marco started, but Ace smushed his cheeks further, laughing as this earned him a muffled sound of protest from his partner.

“Marco,” Ace said in a rush, before Marco could interrupt or before he lost his nerve to the adrenaline suddenly going haywire in his veins, “will you promise to stay with me - and only me - forever? Until death do us part? In sickness and in health and even when I end up as bald as you?”

Marco frowned at that last part but quickly dissolved into a laugh as Ace let go of his cheeks, moving his hands to link his fingers behind Marco’s neck instead.

“Fuck you,” he chuckled, tilting his head slightly and adding in a whisper, “and of course I will,” as he met Ace’s lips, grinning against them.

It wasn’t the picture-perfect wedding, nor were they surrounded by their loved ones giving their blessings and celebrating their love. But it was theirs, and they were together, and really, Ace figured as he sighed into the feel of Marco deepening the kiss, that was what mattered.

“I still want a ring, though,” Ace breathed against Marco’s lips, “something to tell the world that I’m yours.”

“I’ll get you one,” Marco promised, “tomorrow.”

No, it wasn’t the wedding itself that Ace craved after all, and he was happier in that moment than he’d ever been. It was the commitment that he sought, the promise to each other to always be together no matter what.

No matter what…

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little something in between working on my two longer fics!
> 
> I'm actually getting married to my very own Marc(o) in 3 days' time, so for the next 4-5 days I won't be able to write anything at all (I'm actually sad about this, why are my priorities so out of whack lol). We're both off work all of the following week though, so I'll have plenty of time to crank out some stuff then (while he plays Fire Emblem OTL )
> 
> And they say romance is dead ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	20. Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You wanted Ace with a kid? You got it. 
> 
> Deuce/Ace if you want to read it that way, and close friendship if you don't. It wasn't written with shipping intention, but...

Deuce was used to Ace’s nonsense. Completely used to it to the point that he actually expected it, waited for the exclaims of the other men to ring through the ship whenever they made port. It was, frankly, far more worrying to _not_ learn that Ace had been up to something - usually accompanied by Thatch or Teach these days - yet again.

And so this came as no surprise whatsoever.

“You kidnapped a child?” Deuce asked, folding his arms and raising a brow as Ace boarded the Moby.

“Not kidnapped, no,” Ace clarified, twirling on the spot and making the little girl sitting astride his shoulders squeal with delight and grab fistfuls of his hair, “she got lost at the market, so we’re looking for her parents.”

“Here?” Deuce said, not really expecting a sensible response as Ace spun faster at the little girl’s insistence, her shrieks of glee almost drowning out his voice, “you’re looking for her parents on board your own ship?”

Ace shot him a withering look, coming to a halt but keeping a hold on the girl’s ankles to stop her falling. Deuce rather thought Ace had no right to look at him like that; it had been a perfectly reasonable question.

“ _No_ ,” Ace said with enormous emphasis.

“No!” The little girl - who Deuce guessed to be around three or four - chirped happily, curling her fingers deeper into Ace’s hair and rocking from side to side. “Spin me again!” she pleaded, beginning to squeal happily again as Ace grinned and complied.

Deuce heaved a sigh.

The little girl’s long, plaited auburn hair flew out behind her in two shining ropes as she was twirled, her green eyes wide and alive with excitement, taking in the spinning masses of pirates that went about their business around them, most of them barely even sparing a glance at the tiny newcomer. Ace’s hat sat on her head, far too big for her and sitting low on her brow as she peered out from underneath it happily.

“She wanted to see the ship,” Ace explained, coming to a stop again, his face shining with a grin, “Daisy said she wants to be a pirate, so I’m showing her around. _Then_ we’ll head back and look for her parents.”

Deuce couldn’t say for certain, but he was pretty sure that if he was a father and had found his daughter to be playing with a pirate on his ship instead of trying to reunite her with him, he would be furious.

“What is it with you and finding little girls who idolise pirates,” Deuce muttered, Daisy’s awe of the crew around her and the way she seemed so attached to Ace already reminding him starkly of Tama back in Wano Country. Ace didn’t reply, bouncing on the spot to make Daisy scream with laughter and wrap her arms around his head, covering his eyes.

“Ooh, who’s this little princess?” Izou’s voice cooed, brushing past Deuce as he and Thatch boarded as well. “She’s adorable, Ace.”

Ace turned in the direction of Izou’s voice, blinded by the way Daisy’s arms obscured his vision, grin intact. “She’s my new understudy,” he said, “she’s gonna be a big pirate captain one day.”

“I’m sure her parents will be thrilled,” Deuce said sarcastically as Izou and Thatch crowded them.

Daisy grabbed at Ace’s hair again, digging her fingers in and staring at Izou intently. “Pretty,” she said, her eyes on Izou’s lips as he smiled at her.

“You like my lipstick?” he asked, and Daisy nodded enthusiastically. “Do you want to try some on?”

Daisy’s eyes practically shined. “Can I?” she patted Ace’s freckled cheek for his approval, earning a laugh and a nod from him.

“Sure thing,” he said, “let’s make you all pretty like Izou.”

“Ace, maybe that’s not a good idea,” Deuce tried, taking his former captain by the arm as he started to leave for Izou’s room, “her parents probably won’t like it when you find them.”

Daisy released a fist from Ace’s messy hair to point at Deuce. “He’s boring,” she said loudly, and Ace laughed heartily at her words and at Deuce’s frown.

“Nah, he’s just a bit like a mom,” Ace corrected her, flashing Deuce that radiant grin as he left, following Izou, “he’s only trying to look after me.”

"Yeah, and mommies are boring!"

Deuce pinched the bridge of his nose over his mask, counting to ten and taking a deep breath. He’d go back down into town himself and start looking; he’d probably find a very distraught couple searching the streets for their little girl, and he’d reunite them himself if Ace was determined to get side-tracked.

Thatch patted him on the back, chortling. “Good luck,” he said, as if he knew what Deuce’s plan was, “you’re about to find yourself in the company of some very angry parents.”

* * *

  
  
”But I wanna stay with Ace!” Daisy wailed, clinging to her new favorite pirate’s neck and refusing to let go, her short legs wrapped tight around his waist, “go away, Mommy!”

All in all, when considering the worst possible reaction Daisy’s parents could have had, things had gone pretty well, Deuce thought. They had not been angry, as Thatch had predicted, and had in fact been grateful that someone had come to find them and inform them that their daughter was safe.

But now, as Daisy’s mother gave up trying to reason with her besotted child and began trying to physically tug her off Ace, Deuce wondered if he’d done the right thing in bringing them straight up on board. Whitebeard and Marco weren’t around, at least; they were the most infamous, obviously, and even if the villagers didn’t recognise the Moby, they were bound to recognise it’s captain and first mate. Deuce had been worried as the father seemed to recognise Ace, probably from a wanted poster, but thankfully he appeared to convince himself he was wrong.

“Daisy, what is that around your mouth?”

The mother’s question brought Deuce’s attention back to them, and he had to suppress a laugh at how Ace was awkwardly holding his hands up in the air, neither helping Daisy cling to him nor aiding her mother in getting her off.

“Ace did it for me,” Daisy said proudly, struggling against her mother’s continuous pulling, latching her little hands around Ace’s neck more firmly, “he made me pretty like Izou.”

‘Pretty’ wasn’t quite the word Deuce would have used. Daisy, as he understood it, had originally had her lips painted a pale pink by Izou, but had then thrust the brighter red color into Ace’s hands and demanded that he go over it.

And it was incredibly obvious that Ace had never applied lip paint of any kind to anyone in his life.

While Izou’s coat had been perfect and elegant, Ace’s was applied thick and messy, tracing a great ring around Daisy’s mouth that edged over the line of her lips in several places. Deuce privately thought that the little girl could have done a much better job if she had done it herself. Without a mirror.

“Did he now,” her mother said coldly, glaring at Ace, and he had the good decency to look away. “Well, we’ll get that wiped off once we’re home; hopefully it won’t stain. Now _let. Go_.”

“No! I’m his understuffy! I’m going with them out to sea!”

“I never said that,” Ace said quickly, looking panicked under the woman’s look of cold fury, “I never said we’d take her anywhere—”

“He said I’ll be a pirate captain!”

“OK, yes, I did say _that_ , but—”

Daisy screamed and flailed as her mother finally managed to prise her off Ace, crying, “but I wanna stay with Ace! I wanna stay with Ace! He’s my best friend!”

And then she burst into tears, sobbing loud as she was pulled into her mother’s embrace.

Ace shared a look with Izou next to him, then looked to Deuce for help. Deuce nodded, encouraging whatever plan Ace was coming up with, trusting that in the face of Daisy’s parents he wouldn’t do anything to make the situation worse.

“Hey,” Ace said gently, stepping forward.

He held out his hand and looked to Daisy’s mother for permission, laying his palm to the little girl’s back when her mother nodded her approval. Daisy looked round at him, her cheeks wet with tears and face crumpled with her sobs, and she sniffed hard.

“Take this,” Ace said, fiddling with the red and white bracelet that he always wore on his left wrist, slipping it off and holding it out to Daisy. “This is really important to me, and I’d like you to keep it safe here until we come back to visit you. As long as you have that, we’re best friends, even if we’re not together. How does that sound?”

“Overkill, dude,” Thatch muttered to Ace as Daisy lapsed back into sobs, holding the bracelet like it was the One Piece itself.

“B-But I don’t— don’t want you to g-go,” Daisy howled.

Ace gently closed Daisy’s fist over the bracelet before tucking a stray strand of auburn hair behind her ear.

“Your mommy and daddy would be really upset if you came with us,” Ace said kindly, smiling as Daisy wiped at her eyes with her free hand, “because they really, really love you, and they’d miss you too much if you left.”

Daisy nodded, sniffing and clearly trying her best to control the tears that kept coming. Deuce couldn’t look at Ace, that expression of tender, open caring for the little girl they barely knew too much for him.

“And my friends would miss me too much if I stayed here,” Ace continued. He patted Daisy’s fist that held the precious bracelet and said, “can you guess who made this?”

Daisy thought for a moment. “You?”

Ace shook his head and then looked up at Deuce, and Daisy did too, and Deuce felt the gravity of their gazes pulling him back to meet their eyes.

“He did,” Ace said gently, “to symbolise our friendship. And now I’m giving it to you for the same reason. I can’t leave him just like you can’t leave your mommy and daddy; it’d make him cry.”

Deuce somehow, miraculously, managed to stop himself from snorting; the idea of him ever crying over leaving Ace to his own devices on some random island was impossible to imagine. But still… he appreciated the message Ace was conveying all the same.

“The boring man?” Daisy asked, successfully ruining the moment and making Ace laugh hard.

“The one and the same!” Ace chuckled, glancing up at Deuce again and laughing harder at the frown there on his face.

But Deuce had to admit he admired Ace’s way with children. He waved with Ace, Izou, and Thatch as Daisy’s parents left them, the little girl holding her precious treasure aloft in her fist as she shouted her goodbyes to them. Deuce knew Ace would never even consider having children of his own, given his determination to end Roger’s bloodline with himself, and he couldn’t help but wonder if that made Ace feel in any way saddened.

It probably did, considering the way he got on so well with children. But it wasn’t his place to ask about that, not unless Ace brought it up first.

“So what’s for dinner, Thatch?” Ace asked as they turned back to the Moby Dick, hands resting behind his head and looking to all the world like he was at peace.

Deuce decided to make him a replacement bracelet. A better one. And this time, he wasn’t allowed to give it away.

 

 


	21. Desertion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on a roll with Deuce stories, it seems.

Ace had never been betrayed. At least not quite like this. He’d faced a lot of things before, had felt pain and heartache and loss in more forms than anyone really had any right in being laden with, but this was something new. This hurt in a way he’d not experienced before.

And it came from someone he thought he could trust implicitly.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice hollow, stepping out from behind the corner where he had been hiding, revealing himself to Whitebeard, his gang of nurses, that bastard of a first mate, and… Deuce.

 _His_ first mate. His second. His good friend who loved to write about his adventures with Ace, who had acted as his captain’s impulse control back before they had been beaten and dragged on board this weird-ass ship where everyone called each other Brother.

And Deuce was just standing there beside Whitebeard, fixing an IV bag up while one of the nurses changed the cannula in the back of the old man’s hand. Deuce’s shock was plain on his features, stunned to see Ace standing there all of a sudden, mouthing wordlessly at him.

This was the first time they’d seen each other since being brought on board. The first mate of Whitebeard - Ace didn’t remember his name and had no intention of learning it - had kept them separated on purpose, had beaten Ace down into the floor the first time he had flared up vivid orange and attacked, yelling for him to tell him where Deuce was.

 _“You don’t need to know his whereabouts,”_ the man had told him, smirking, as he had held Ace down with a single palm to the back of his head. Humiliating him.

So this was why.

He hadn’t seen Deuce at first, had only noticed him when he had stood up from bending over a box on the floor, and so Ace had been just about ready to launch himself at Whitebeard in today’s attempt at assassination. He knew full well the nurses or the blond man wouldn’t intervene - they never did, and it only served to make Ace hate them more for looking down on him. He could have walked right up to the captain and shoved a gun in his face and none of them would have moved a muscle, trusting Whitebeard to be able to take care of whatever Ace could think of.

And so far, he had done just that.

“Ace?” Deuce said, voice alive with nerves, as he stared.

“Why are you helping them?” Ace asked, his lips feeling numb to the shock of catching Deuce doing something so heinous. “What’s going on?”

Deuce stuttered, swallowed, and looked to the first mate for help; Ace’s stomach rolled with panic. Why was Deuce doing that? What had he missed during these last few weeks?

But the man simply shrugged. “Do you want a minute to talk?”

Deuce nodded, gasping, “please,” as Ace looked between them. He could feel his fists starting to shake, balled up so tight his knuckles had gone white, and he clenched his teeth to stop his jaw trembling too.

There had to be a good explanation for this. There _had_ to be. Deuce wouldn’t betray him.

Ace followed him as he beckoned, jogging after his doctor a little way down the corridor that led further into the bowels of the ship.

But it turned out he was wrong about Deuce after all.

“I’ve agreed to help look after Whitebeard,” Deuce told Ace, his voice shaking and low as he looked at the clear hurt in Ace’s eyes at his admittance, “he’s not well, and they want another doctor with him because Marco is struggling.”

“Who the hell’s Marco?” Ace asked, grasping onto the easiest of questions first, not sure he could deal with the shock of Deuce’s apparent desertion just yet.

“The first mate, back there,” Deuce jerked his chin over his shoulder; Ace fought down the childish impulse to swear at Marco as he waved sarcastically, noticing Ace peering at him.

“What’s it to you if some guy’s finding it hard to look after his daddy?” Ace spat, “he’ll have an even worse time of it when I separate Whitebeard’s head from his shoulders.”

“Ace,” Deuce said, looking at him imploringly, a look that Ace hadn’t seen on his masked face before, “this needs to stop. You can’t kill him. There’s too much at stake if you succeed.”

Ace shoved a hand through his hair, his hat left forgotten back in the room he had claimed for himself. “You need to explain this so I can understand,” he said, his voice rough and raw from the emotional pain, “because right now this isn’t making any sense whatsoever. We’re here to kill Whitebeard, not fucking play hospital and help make him better.”

Deuce glanced over his shoulder again and led Ace further down the corridor, lowering his voice.

“When we got separated, we all got interrogated about our roles in our crew,” Deuce said in a rush, as if delivering the information quickly would make it less painful for Ace to hear, “and that man, Marco, spread us out across their divisions according to what we’re best at.”

“And you just told him?” Ace asked, incredulous, “you just gave out what they wanted to know?”

“It wasn’t obvious what he was doing,” Deuce said, his tone pleading for Ace to understand, but he couldn’t; he hadn’t given anything away himself, so far holding fast under Thatch’s cheerful questioning and conversations, knowing full well which questions were harmless with genuine interest, and which were probing into his role as their enemy. “He eventually learned about my medical background. He took me to his division and, well…”

“And what?” Ace demanded, “and _what_ , Deuce? How did he corrupt my first mate, my best friend, and fill your dumb head with ideas of saving Whitebeard instead of killing him?”

Deuce looked pained at Ace’s venomous snarl, but carried on. “He’s the head doctor of the crew,” he said, as if that would explain everything.

Ace snorted. “So?”

“So he was really interested in my capabilities, and he said it didn’t matter if I had been failing at medical school so long as I still had an interest, which I do. He said he’d train me and get me up to the same standard as a qualified doctor, which I—”

So that was it. Deuce had been led so completely astray because he’d had his ego massaged and promised what he couldn’t achieve back home. Ace actually rolled his eyes at his first mate, suddenly furious as well as hurting.

“So learn what you need and then stab him!” Ace hissed. “Use him! You don’t need to tend to Whitebeard in order to do that! Or, what, has this guy inflated your ego so much that you feel the need to _thank_ him properly? Is his bed so comfy that you don’t want to leave it?”

Deuce looked startled at Ace’s vulgar implication, and Ace wondered for the briefest of seconds if Deuce was going to slap him for it. He would have deserved it, honestly, knowing full well that sex wouldn’t be something that could hope to lead Deuce astray.

But then again, Ace had believed that nothing would.

“Will you just _listen?_ ” Deuce snapped, “I’m trying to explain here.”

“Well you’re doing a pretty shit job of it so far,” Ace retorted.

Deuce sighed and ran a gloved hand through his own sleek hair, not messing it up like Ace did to his own unruly fluff.

“I’m getting there,” he said after a pause, “just let me talk you through it all and be quiet.”

Ace scoffed; Deuce had no place to be talking to him like that, not now that he was effectively a traitor. But he held his tongue and nodded for Deuce to continue, to see what other nonsense he had had stuffed into his head.

“As I was saying,” Deuce began again, “at first I wasn’t tempted. Marco told me all sorts of stuff about Whitebeard’s condition, what he and the nurses had come up with to keep him comfortable and whatnot, and I was thinking the same as you - I was noting it all down to tell you when I found you, because it was priceless information that would help finish him off. You understand?”

Ace did, and could see that it was actually a brilliant idea, but that didn’t explain how Deuce had made the huge leap from gathering information to turning against him.

“But Marco found my notebook.”

“Christ, Deuce, you need to be more careful with those things.”

“I know,” Deuce admitted, “but in this case, it was actually a good thing that he found out.”

He leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice further still, and Ace had to really concentrate to hear him. It felt like he was about to learn a huge secret.

“You know how the Yonko crews have protected territories?” Deuce asked, and Ace nodded.

“Yeah, like how these guys have Fish-Man Island,” he said, remembering how he had destroyed Whitebeard’s flag flying proudly on that island.

“Right,” Deuce nodded in return, “well, this crew look after their territories. I mean _really_ look after them. No one will dare hurt those under their protection, and if someone is stupid enough to try anything, then this crew will see to it that it’s the last thing they do. They look after the sick, too - Marco told me about how he will sometimes spend weeks at a time helping heal and clean up epidemics, or aiding hospitals and schools, or just doing yearly check-ups on islands under their protection—”

“So he’s a regular Florence Nightingale, big deal—”

“No, because that’s what this crew do, you fool, it’s part of their job.” Deuce looked annoyed at Ace’s flippant comment. “They look after them. They make people’s lives better simply by flying their flag over their land. They’ve pulled villages out of ruin just by claiming them. They’ve stopped pillagers and gangs and all sorts from terrorizing islands and cities. Just think about what that means for a minute. Think about how many lives would be ruined if Whitebeard were to die and thousands of people were suddenly left without any protection whatsoever.”

A small part of Ace could see what Deuce was getting at. He hadn’t spared a second to stop and think about the wider implications of Whitebeard’s death, of the impact it would have on those out there who relied on him and his name.

But his more immediate, selfish reaction was to rage, to ache, to demand that Deuce leave them to it, to come back to him and him alone, because Ace was still his captain and he would not see his first mate under anyone else. Deuce was his friend - not Marco’s, not Whitebeard’s. His.

“I’ve come to understand, also, that killing Whitebeard to make a name for yourself, to override Roger’s title, isn’t worth it.”

Ace’s expression hardened, his lip curling in disgust at this. “Excuse me?” he asked coldly, unable to believe what he was hearing. He had thought that Deuce was on his side, had understood why he needed to do this.

“It’s not worth it,” Deuce repeated, beginning to look worried again, that despite everything he was saying, he didn’t want to hurt Ace, “you can make a name for yourself a different way, Ace, just not _this_  way. Not when it will leave so many innocent people at the mercy of the horrors of the world.”

Ace said nothing, simply glared at Deuce’s anxious face. He felt Deuce take his right hand between his own two, the leather gloves soft to his skin, as Deuce clasped him tight.

“Please, Ace,” Deuce all but begged, “we’ll think of another way to wipe Roger’s name out of your life. We’ll go back to the drawing board and come up with something else. Just…” he sighed, his anxiety almost palpable, “just don’t ask me to help you leave their territories undefended. This isn’t what I signed up for. I joined you because of you, not because I wanted to help destroy the lives of innocents. And that isn’t what you want, either.”

Damn right, it wasn’t what he wanted.

But he was going to see it through now that they had come this far.

“Then we’ll take his place,” Ace said, his expression determined and alive with confidence, “we’ll take his head, we’ll become the new greatest power on the seas, and we’ll claim all of their land. We’ll replace them, keep everyone safe, and…”

But he trailed off at the look on Deuce’s face, that look of unabashed sadness and resignation. Ace felt his shoulders sag at that look, felt defeated by it.

“And you don’t think we’re up to that,” Ace finished off dully. Deuce shook his head slowly.

“No,” he said, “no, we aren’t. This crew is sixteen-hundred strong with veterans more than twice your age. We have barely twenty people. They have more medical staff in their first division than we have an entire crew, Ace. We can’t do what they do. We wouldn’t be able to protect anyone.”

Deuce was right. He must have been thinking about having this conversation and where it would go for weeks, probably since the moment he had learned it all himself. Ace could see now why he had defected.

But that didn’t stop him from hurting and feeling conflicted as all hell.

He stepped away from his first mate, tugging his hand free from his grasp. He couldn’t meet Deuce’s eyes, knowing the pain that would be there at his open rejection.

“I’m sorry, Deuce,” he said, his heart feeling heavy yet also empty as he backed away, “but I need some time to think this through. I’m not going to give up, but I also don’t want to leave their land undefended.”

He looked up and past Deuce to Whitebeard, chatting so casually with Marco as the blond finished up with replacing his IV bags, smiling up at his captain with such love and care. It made Ace feel sick.

Deuce moved suddenly, reaching out to Ace and tugging him into his body, holding him close in a tight embrace. Ace didn’t fight it, looping his arms around Deuce in return on instinct more than anything else, resting his cheek to his broad shoulder with a sigh; he had missed this. Had missed Deuce. And he still cared about him tremendously despite this whole shitty mess.

“You’ll find a way,” Deuce murmured into Ace’s hair, nuzzling into the wild mess affectionately, “you always do.” He sighed, the action seeming to drain him of all the tension in his body, his shoulders relaxing and growing heavy.

“But this is the right thing for me to do right now,” Deuce continued, keeping a firm hold on Ace as he tried to pull away, tried to protect himself from the straight up desertion that Deuce was admitting to. But Deuce wouldn’t let him go; not now, not ever. “And I think you might find that it’s the right path for you, too. They aren’t bad people, y’know. But you’ll always be my captain, Ace, no matter what.”

And Ace, to his own surprise, felt tears stinging at his eyes at that last line. He buried his face more insistently into Deuce’s bare skin, feeling his warmth and his beating heart against him.

He felt Deuce look over his shoulder at the others, and could almost feel him communicating with them.

“I think Marco will let me see you from now on,” Deuce said gently, and Ace huffed a laugh into his skin.

“Marco can go fuck himself,” came Ace’s muffled reply, and Deuce chuckled.

“You’ll like him if you give him a chance,” Deuce said, his tone slightly scolding as if he were reprimanding a child, “his sense of humor is similar to mine, I think.”

“He can suck my dick.”

Deuce ruffled Ace’s hair, making it more wild and unruly than it already was. It was sometimes very easy to forget just how young Ace was, but comebacks like these really helped remind his first mate like nothing else.

Deuce did not consider himself to be deserting Ace, and did not tell him that he had spoken at length with both Marco and Thatch on the best ways to convince his captain to give up on his impossible task and accept Whitebeard’s invitation to join the family. It was what Ace needed more than anything else imaginable, would do him far more good than this fruitless hate-fuelled quest could ever achieve. He did not need death and anger - he needed love and a family.

And Deuce would do whatever he could to get Ace to see that, too.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I often think about how Deuce would have told Ace he was basically defecting. He changed his mind and decided to look after Whitebeard before Ace made the leap, and I can't imagine that this would have gone down at all well with Ace. It would have been so difficult for Deuce, since he so clearly cared about and looked up to Ace, but he would have undoubtedly known he was doing the right thing.


	22. Hair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You had some decent, thoughtful writing in the last two chapters.
> 
> Now have some absolute nonsense.
> 
> I don't even know at this point.
> 
> Marco/Ace as a couple but not even remotely the focus of whatever this is.

Today was the day, Marco decided. There were no two ways about it.

It had to be today.

Not tomorrow; tomorrow would be too late, because Ace had instincts like a damn cat and could sense when they were plotting something. Kind of like how Kotatsu somehow knew when his vet check-up was happening.

No, they needed to corner him today, now, and get it over with.

Marco took the chance to communicate this to the others at breakfast when Ace flopped forwards into his bacon with a snore. It was too risky to try letting the others know when he was conscious; last time had ended in disaster and Ace had gone missing for days before Thatch had found him hiding in a food store room.

It was time for the three-monthly chop.

Ace was due a haircut.

And boy, did he put up a fight whenever he needed one.

Marco nodded to his accomplices gravely as they stood one by one, silently setting off to get into position around the ship. It was pathetic that so many of them were needed, and so spread out, too, but they had learned from experience that it was necessary.

Thatch pulled up a seat opposite Ace. Deuce waited in position at the table behind him. Jozu left to hide in Thatch’s bedroom, the one that shared a wall with the first of the shared commanders’ bathrooms.

Izou. Haruta. Hell, Namur out on deck for if Ace took his chances and threw himself overboard again and missed the lifeboat like last time.

It was ridiculous but necessary, and all the more obvious when Ace sat up in a daze, his ketchup-covered hair sticking to his forehead and cheeks as he blinked across at Thatch, then up at Marco beside him. His hair was far too long due to calling off the last Great Cut Attempt, so it hadn’t been taken care of for at least six months by now. It didn’t help that he would frequently neglect brushing it himself, relying on Marco to drag a comb through those thick locks after a shower.

“Ah,” he said flatly, “I did it again. Oops.”

“You sure did,” Thatch twinkled at him, chin in his palm, as relaxed and normal as ever for all the watching world to witness, “you look like you’ve been stabbed in the head, you have so much ketchup on you.”

“Go have a shower,” Marco told his boyfriend, catching Thatch’s eye, “get yourself cleaned up.”

Ace whined. “But I had one last night already.”

“And? You’re not spending the rest of the day covered in ketchup. Off you go.”

And luckily, somehow, Ace did as he was told, grumbling about wasting water and time and ‘who even cares if I have ketchup in my hair’. Honestly, sometimes Marco couldn’t help but wonder if Ace had been raised by pigs.

Thatch flashed Marco a thumbs up as Ace trotted off; wet hair was infinitely easier to cut.

So far, so good.

They moved as one unit a moment after Ace left the mess hall, Marco flashing signals to the others with his fingers. They couldn’t risk words, even now, not after that time when Ace had doubled back to fetch his hat and had heard them whispering. Cue the launching of one freaked out Logia user straight into the sea.

They stole along the corridor to the bathrooms, leaving Izou and Haruta at the junction that led back to the main deck, and Deuce went ahead of Marco and Thatch to cover the other side of the corridor. Ace tended to put up less of a vicious fight with Deuce, probably because he gave as good as he got and had no qualms about using excessive force against his problematic ex-captain.

Thatch was the last to get into position, standing with his back to the wall of the corridor just outside the doorway to the bathroom, ready for when Marco led their target out.

Thatch was the main man of the operation, the Scissors Wielder, the one who would ultimately have to wrestle the most with their snarling, feral brother. Marco and Izou had scissors on them too, though, just in case Thatch became incapacitated like when one of Ace’s flailing knees had struck him in the side of the head, dropping him immediately. This was what Jozu’s support was for this time, too.

Marco paused with his hand on the door of the bathroom, readying himself. How he handled this could determine the whole escapade’s outcome.

He looked to Thatch as he suddenly started miming wildly, acting out tugging something up over his legs and then pressing his palms together as if in prayer: _please, whatever you do, make sure he’s got his underwear on this time._  Marco snorted a laugh at the memory of the last time they had ambushed the Fire Fist in the shower - Ace had sprinted for all he was worth out onto deck before being tackled to the floor by Vista, completely stark naked. Vista had taken days to recover from the trauma of getting slapped in the face by a dick as Ace had struggled wildly.

He pushed the door open.

Ace looked around from where he stood under the stream of water, suds of shampoo sliding down over his tattooed back as he blinked enquiringly at Marco.

“Come to join me?” he asked innocently, no hidden meaning in the question for once, and that alone put Marco on edge. “I’ll wash your hair for you too, if you like.”

Ace would have normally used a situation like this to his advantage, pulling Marco in close through his enticing words alone, promises of his wet, naked body coming undone against Marco’s own slipping hot between his lips.

But he didn’t, and didn’t move to suggest anything of the sort, instead holding up the bottle of shampoo, ready for his boyfriend to join him.

And Marco felt that mammoth stab of guilt like he so often did when this time rolled around, felt like he was betraying that sweet smile and loving eyes.

This was ridiculous.

He picked up the towel that Ace had dumped on the floor and held it open, beckoning.

“Maybe next time,” he said simply, “now come here, I’ll dry you off.”

Ace turned off the stream and padded wetly over to Marco, the enormous walk-in shower in the wet room echoing with the slap of his bare feet. Marco pulled him in and folded the towel around him, looking over how his black hair clung to his neck and cheeks in long tendrils as he dried Ace’s shoulders, arms, and chest. It really did grow faster than anyone else’s on board.

“What?” Ace asked, looking up at Marco enquiringly. He yelped in surprise when Marco brought the towel up and rubbed it into his hair, obscuring his vision.

“Nothing,” Marco said as casually as he could manage, his heart thumping, “just thinking how cute your freckles are.”

Ace laughed, muffled by the towel over his head, as Marco dried him.

“Creepy old man,” Ace joked as his head was freed from the towel, turning around to let Marco dry his back, “is that why you’re here? To be a massive creep?”

“You know it,” Marco played along, knowing that he probably only had seconds to go before Ace suspected something, and he had to get this done before then, “any excuse to touch you up.”

Ace snickered as Marco crouched down and roughly towelled his legs dry.

“No, but seriously,” Ace prodded, holding onto Marco’s shoulders as he stepped into the boxers that were held open at his feet, “if you’re not here to shower, then what?”

Marco shrugged, standing as he pulled the underwear up, the elastic pinging to Ace’s hips with a satisfying snap as he let go. Objective cleared. “I wanted to make sure you actually had a shower instead of wandering off somewhere else.”

“Ugh, don’t, you sound like a parent,” Ace grimaced, and Marco smiled.

And then Ace froze, his eyes trained on Marco’s hip, at the pocket that contained the silver scissors. Marco followed his gaze and saw the handles protruding from his pocket; he looked back at Ace, saw the dawning comprehension there, and stumbled over his words.

“Wait, Ace, this isn’t—”

But too late, the damage was done, and Ace scrabbled away as fast as he could, feet slipping on the wet floor.

Marco lunged after him as he made for the door, missing him by inches.

“Shit, shit, shit— Thatch!”

And Thatch was ready, face set and determined to succeed this time as Ace wrenched open the door. He ducked and dived immediately, slipping under Thatch’s arms as he grabbed for him, and Marco wanted to punch him for it - he’d been in the perfect position. But no matter, because—

“Jozu!” Thatch bellowed.

With an ear-splitting crash Jozu plowed straight through Thatch’s bedroom door, bursting into the corridor in a whirl of splintered wood and dust. Ace shrieked at the sight of all 16ft of him, backing up the way he had come as Jozu towered over him, dominating the area entirely and looking far too excitedly eager to help. Marco realised belatedly that he should have specified not to terrify the poor boy if possible.

“Why the fuck is Jozu involved?!” Ace yelled, panic driving him backwards - straight into Thatch’s waiting arms.

Thatch had him pinned down on his front in a heartbeat, having to resort to haki to stop Ace’s flames from burning both himself and the ship as he thrashed on the floor, screaming fit to burst.

“Deuce, Marco, fuck,” Thatch panted, using his entire weight to keep Ace’s arms pinned to his back as Ace struggled with all his strength, “a little help would be nice!”

“Leave it to me,” Jozu said, his deep voice booming through the corridor, and Ace twisted in Thatch’s hold to look up at the towering giant.

“No, no, no, no!”

And then all the air was pressed from Ace’s lungs as Jozu sat down on his back carefully, probably making it so that he’d never breathe again.

Thatch winced at the sight and backed away, and Marco was impressed despite himself to see that it didn’t stop Ace from flailing his fists.

“Good thing you don’t want kids, eh Ace?” Thatch said, looking impossibly relieved to not be the one underneath their giant friend.

“I’ll burn your ass, Jozu!” Ace wheezed, clawing at the floor, “get off me!”

“Feel free to try,” Jozu shrugged, transforming his lower half into diamond in anticipation of the flames, and Ace snarled.

Marco and Deuce joined in, grabbing one of Ace’s wrists each and holding them still too. Ace raged and struggled, but it got him nowhere.

“I hate you both,” he spat at them, glaring, “you’re both dead to me.”

“So you say every time we’ve had to do this to you for the last God knows how long,” Deuce replied, sounding thoroughly bored, “and yet you seem to forget this threat by the end of the day each time.”

“Hold his head for me,” Thatch said, looming over the captive commander menacingly, “I can’t get near him if he’s moving too much.”

So Marco held him and Deuce took over on both arms, Marco’s thumbs pressed to his temples as Thatch began to get to work.

“Why do you react like this every time, hm?” Thatch asked Ace, snipping at the long lengths, “you can’t avoid a haircut forever, and it doesn’t take long. And seriously, Marco, you could have at least brushed his hair, it’s all tangled.”

Ace said nothing, the fight leaving him now that the cutting had started, his cheek pressed to the floor as he glared at Marco; Marco watched Thatch’s scissors to avoid looking at those eyes.

“It’s conditioning via childhood trauma,” Deuce offered when it became apparent that Ace wasn’t going to say anything, “his brothers cut his hair in his sleep a few times and he woke up with great big tufts missing. And then another time he got stabbed in the head with scissors when Luffy got a bit too excited. And I don’t know if this counts, but right after he got his powers, he accidentally set fire to his head; it was really funny, actually, I had to throw him in the sea and then of course he started to drown—”

“Thanks, Master of Psychology,” Ace spat, “good to know I can’t trust you with embarrassing personal information.”

Deuce shrugged, unabashed. “Better to tell them the truth than let them come up with their own assumptions.”

“Don’t wriggle,” Thatch said, pausing his work, “it’ll be over soon and then you’re free for the next three months, OK?”

“We could try and resolve that trauma, y’know,” Marco said, “so you wouldn’t have to go through this every time.”

“Going through this _right now_  is making it worse,” Ace snarled, and Marco had to concede that he made a very good point.

"If getting a haircut is so bad, maybe you could try wearing it long, like Izou's?" Deuce suggested, but Ace scrunched his nose at the idea.

"No way, I like it the length it usually is."

"Well then you're kind of setting yourself up for this, Ace," Marco pointed out reasonably.

“Ah, don’t worry lad, Marco will love you extra hard tonight to make it all go away.”

“Fuck off, Thatch.”

And then out of nowhere, Marco heard those words that would haunt him for the rest of the week.

“Well,” Jozu said with an air of one who was not impressed by the show he was watching and wanted a refund, “that was underwhelming. You all had me believe that this would be a disaster.”

And he stood up - actually _stood_ and left Ace lying on his stomach in his boxers - and stretched.

Deuce and Marco looked at each other. Then down at Ace. But Ace didn’t move, didn’t look at them, and just lay there like nothing had happened.

“See?” Jozu gestured to Ace, “he’s fine now! No problem!”

But it was a problem.

Ace was on his feet quicker than a heart beat, yanking himself free from the combined grips of his friends before they could gather themselves, and he went tearing off down the corridor in the direction away from the deck.

The undefended direction.

The three men sat on the floor blinked stupidly at each other, Thatch’s scissors still held aloft, the trimmed black hair covering his knees where it had fallen. They looked up at Jozu in unison, blank at his expression of tremendous shock.

“Oh,” was all he could manage.

Thatch looked at his scissors, then to Marco. “I didn’t even get halfway,” he said, his shoulders starting to shake with the beginnings of laughter, “he’s going to look such an idiot if we just leave him.”

Marco was sorely tempted to do just that, but Deuce’s words ‘childhood trauma’ came back to him and made him feel sorry for their charge.

“Come on, let’s go get him,” he said with a sigh, standing up, “before he can scare too many people.”

A scream and a crash from further down the ship sounded, and suddenly the sounds of fiercely burning fire could be heard crackling some way away.

Marco groaned.

“ _Now_.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was vaguely inspired by the way my cat - my sweet, soppy, total BABY of a little boy - seems to know when it's Vet Day. He suddenly becomes so incredibly strong that even with two of us on him, we can't wrestle him into his carrier. It's like preparing for war, trying to get that boy into his carrier. I've never known anything like it. The female cat is no trouble, you kinda just shove her in, but the boy... dear lord he's actually stronger than any man I know.


	23. Elation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soft, tooth-rooting cuteness about Thatch getting Ace involved in the kitchen.
> 
> Massive thanks to justaguest's suggestion of "thatch blushing and being embarrassed by how much ace loves his food" for this one - the idea of Ace being besotted with Thatch's food is just too good.

He’s salivating. All over himself. The fluid dripping off his chin and onto his chest as he watches Thatch’s skilled hands chopping, slicing, dicing the vegetables for the stew he’s preparing for dinner for the fifth division. Thatch grins to himself at the sight of it, of Ace standing there beside him, hand held underneath the vast saucepan his flames are heating as he swallows. Yet still the saliva comes.

He’s like Stephan at dinner time, Thatch muses, lifting the large chopping board and sliding the last of the onion and carrot into the bubbling broth with a _plop_. The boy hasn’t accepted any of Thatch’s meals so far, absolutely convinced that the chef is intent on poisoning him, and has been making do with stealing what he can find. Or, in actuality, stealing what Thatch has been tactfully leaving out for him to happen upon. Ace won’t take anything that is too obviously there for him, though, so Thatch has had to become a master in Artful Food Placement for him, because he’ll be damned if he’s not getting his fiery boy fed properly.

And then it had hit him that morning as he had watched their young guest slinking off with a loaf of bread and hunk of ham - If Ace can be a part of the meal preparation, he will know for certain that it isn’t poisoned. It was so simple, yet effective.

“That’ll do for now,” Thatch tells him, and Ace removes his hand from under the pan. Thatch hands him the huge lid and Ace, without a fuss (which makes a nice change), pops it on top of the steaming pan. Thatch turns the gas on as Ace removes his hand in order for the stew to simmer for some time.

And Ace is already eyeing up what Thatch is reaching for next, the excitement radiating off him as Thatch drags over the enormous block of cheese that he had had to physically wrestle off the Fire Fist when the hungry, tired boy had chanced upon it in the store room. Thatch had been too casual with it, stupidly not hiding it or sticking a label on it declaring he was intending to make it into something for Ace and thus scaring him off.

“Next, we’ll do dinner for my division,” Thatch’s grin widens at Ace’s so very poorly concealed excitement. “We’re making macaroni cheese for the boys tonight. Might add some bacon in there too, since they’ve been so good this week.”

Ace’s eyes all but shine at this.

“You like that?” Thatch asks, and Ace nods vigorously. “Shame you can’t have any, then,” he heaves a dramatic sigh, noting the way Ace’s face drops before he can hide it, “if you were to join my division, you could help yourself to as much as you want. But if you still insist on declining my hand of friendship…”

And Ace shifts his weight between his feet, looking uncomfortable but so very, _very_ hungry, visibly almost lusting after the thought of piles and piles of pasta smothered in a thick, cheesy sauce. This is the first time in almost three months of knowing him that Thatch has seen Ace look so painfully conflicted between food and fulfilling his task of continuing to attempt to assassinate Whitebeard.

“Not even a taste test?” Ace ventures in a whimper, and in that moment he is merely a child to Thatch, one who holds out his bowl at the end of his pitiful meal and asks for a little more. And Thatch’s heart clenches like a fist in his chest.

“Well, yes, I suppose,” he blusters, trying to gather himself, “taste testing is fundamental in making the sauce; I never do it by exact measurements. Shall I show you how to make it?”

Despite himself and probably against his better judgement, Ace is a model student, watching wide-eyed as Thatch explains that they need equal parts butter and plain flour at first, standing in quiet awe as Thatch melts the butter and mixes it with the flour in the bottom of a new saucepan. His fist is back under yet another gigantic pan, boiling the macaroni inside.

Ace tips the milk in himself under Thatch’s gentle powers of persuasion, getting him involved properly - not too much at first, just enough for Thatch to whisk it smooth into the paste that’s cooking on the floor of the pan.

A little more milk. Whisk in. A little more still.

They eventually reach the consistency that Thatch is happy with, and Ace raises a spoon in anticipation of plunging it in.

But Thatch laughs at him. “Hang fire, lad, we haven’t added the key ingredient yet!”

And he hands Ace a knife to hack at the block of cheese; Ace lights up, literally, small flames of excitement flickering along his shoulders as he cuts off a wedge. He coaxes Ace’s left hand away from where it is still heating the macaroni, turning the gas on in favor of letting Ace use both of his hands.

“Break off small bits and drop them in, nice and slow,” Thatch instructs, and Ace does what he is told, adding a bit at a time from the chunk in his hand into the mix. “Now stir it in,” Thatch says as he passes the whisk to Ace, and Ace looks at him as if he is Neptune handing over his trident.

Ace is heavy-handed with the whisk at first, too eager and too firm with it as the white sauce threatens to slop over the side of the pan. Thatch only laughs at Ace’s look of abject horror at the prospect of getting this wrong.

“Gently does it,” Thatch encourages him, laying his hand over the back of Ace’s that grips the whisk far too hard. He does not miss the way Ace stiffens under his touch, but he ignores it. “Swirl it gently, around the edges, and don’t use your elbow. Just your wrist. Like this.”

Thatch guides him, rolling Ace’s wrist around in an anti-clockwise motion, and Ace soon gets it. He looks up at Thatch with the most sincere, honest smile Thatch has seen yet as he starts mixing in the cheese properly, and Thatch knows he will have this boy in their crew if it’s the last thing he ever does.

“Now add a little salt and pepper— a _little_ , my boy, you don’t want the men breathing fire, do you?”

And Ace _laughs_. He laughs and it fills the warm kitchen with the voice of an angel, of something so wonderfully pure and wholesome and just _right_. Thatch is going to get Ace cooking every meal if this is the key to opening him up more.

Ace is poised with his spoon once again, looking to Thatch for permission before scooping some up to test. But he pauses, hesitates, seems to belatedly realise what he is doing and where, and who he is in front of. Thatch pretends he is tending to the macaroni, giving Ace the space he needs to decide whether he is ready to take this step.

It turns out his stomach is taking it for him, growling loud and fierce in desperation for the delicious morsel that Ace is teasing it with.

Thatch laughs at him, not unkind.

Ace shoves the spoon in his mouth.

And he is suddenly a beacon of utmost joy, his eyes wide and searching Thatch’s, the taste of the chef’s simple recipe, of genuine home cooking that he himself has had a hand in preparing, completely ensnaring him in it’s cheesy thickness. Thatch beams at Ace and the boy makes a pleased sound in his throat, his lips pressed together as if he’s afraid the sauce will escape him.

“Good?”

Ace is a flurry of black hair as he nods.

“Excellent. Now we drain the macaroni, add the sauce to it in the pan, pour it into a few of those big oven dishes, cover it in mozzarella, and bake for 15 minutes.”

Ace actually sits on the floor and watches the dishes of their dinner bake in the huge oven, swaying from side to side in enthusiastic anticipation of it being ready. Thatch chortles and ruffles his hair as he walks past him. Ace allows it, a small frown pulling at the corner of his lips but not fighting the affection.

Thatch realises too late that, in the face of Ace being so cooperative for a change, he has forgotten to cook and add the bacon. He’s sure the men won’t care, and if they do, they know where the kitchens are, but they will still be getting their doses of vegetables either way, he’ll see to that much at least.

He feels mean as he smacks Ace’s hand away from the dishes as he sets them on the side, ready to serve up to the men they can hear filling the mess hall on the other side of the wall. Ace is staring at the macaroni cheese like he wants to make love to it right there on the counter, his gaze never leaving it’s baked mozzarella topping.

And Thatch gives in, too soft-hearted and fond of the kid.

“Since you helped make it,” he says slowly, gauging Ace’s reaction, “I guess you could have some after all.” Ace whips round in complete delight, eyes glittering with excitement. “Does this mean you’re ready to admit I’ve not been trying to poison you all these months?” Thatch adds with a smirk, and Ace’s expression changes faster than his heart can beat in his chest.

“I watched you from start to finish,” Ace says, “so I know it’s safe.”

And he goes right back to staring longingly at the pasta dishes.

Thatch rather thinks that Ace is going to explode, or evaporate, or maybe even burst into tears as he takes that first bite from the serving he dollops into a bowl for himself, not allowing Thatch to touch his really rather generous portion. Thatch rests his chin in his palm as he watches Ace tuck in with wild enthusiasm, sitting opposite him at the tiny table at the back of the kitchen that usually gets used as a dumping ground for coats and jackets.

“Nice?”

Ace just nods, shovelling his dinner into his mouth with almost nauseating speed.

“You’re a great chef,” he says, cheeks full and bulging, before he can stop himself, and he looks at Thatch in horror at his slip up.

Thatch’s breath catches in his chest and his heart swells with a love that is almost tipping into fatherly for his young charge, and he reaches across the space between them to pet Ace’s hair affectionately. Ace flinches at the movement, realises what Thatch is doing, and dives straight back into the cheesy mess.

He is going to do this everyday, he decides. This here is how he gets Ace to mellow out even more, and he will take full and complete advantage of that.

The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, after all.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made a tumblr account for my One Piece reblogs and screechings, in case anyone is interested: https://aishitekuretearigatou.tumblr.com/  
> I don't like tumblr, but it's a good platform for shouting into the void and whatnot, so off I go!


	24. Peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tiny soft piece about Kotatsu, written from underneath my own gigantic fluffy boycat.
> 
> References to Marco and Ace being a thing.

Warm.

His captain was so very warm.

So comforting, so cozy, and so calming.

He liked his captain - and his heat - very much.

Kotatsu snuggled into Ace a little more, pushing his back into the pirate’s abdomen and stretching his paws at the feel of Ace curling his arm around him a little tighter.

This was what the lynx liked. Lying here on Ace’s bed, engulfed by his high body heat, held safe in his arms. It was his favorite thing to do (after finding something yummy to eat, naturally), and Ace made him feel secure and content like no one else could.

He groaned low when Ace brought his knees up, curling himself more completely around the large cat and mumbling into his fur. Ace was going to fall asleep if they stayed as they were, Kotatsu could feel it, and he was more than happy to do the same.

But wait. He frowned, thinking hard. What if that blue bird came in and ruined it all again?

Kotatsu didn’t like the bird man with the blue flames that didn’t give off heat. He wasn’t warm to the touch and didn’t fill Kotatsu with contentment that made him purr so loudly that he could be heard a floor below. The bird man thought Ace was his, when no, actually, Ace was _Kotatsu’s_  and that was final. The bird man sometimes shared Ace’s bed with him and wouldn’t leave room for Kotatsu to snuggle with the young man, meaning he would have to either sleep on the floor or go find Deuce. The bird man needed to learn his proper place in the food chain.

But Deuce was nice too. Kotatsu’s frown softened into a small smile as he thought of him. Even though Deuce wasn’t warm like Ace, Deuce was kind to him and didn’t try to steal Kotatsu’s spot on Ace’s bed. Deuce would pet Kotatsu’s fur and sometimes give him a brush, leaving his coat gleaming. Deuce liked to write about Ace, and although it wasn’t very good, Kotatsu liked how much Deuce cared about his stories, and so that made them wonderful.

And Kotatsu liked the chef man, too. Thatch. He would feed Kotatsu nice food whenever he came by, and he always gave him the same amount as he gave the men, never being stingy just because he was a cat. Thatch had even started to get Kotatsu to tune into his kitty instincts, playing with string with him when no one else was watching, letting Kotatsu just _be_ rather than worry about appearances.

And his friends from the Spades were nice, too: Mihar, Skull, Saber… _They_ didn’t try and boot Kotatsu out of Ace’s bed whenever their urge to mate took over.

Kotatsu did wonder what Ace saw in the bird man. Why choose a bird for a mate? It made no sense. Birds were for chasing, terrorizing, and eating, after all.

He stretched again, arching his back more insistently into Ace’s warmth, and earned a sleepy sigh into his neck and a stroke along his side before Ace settled back into cuddling him. Kotatsu started to purr; he couldn’t stop himself, despite knowing that the sound would probably keep Ace awake. The deep rumbling continued anyway, the lynx simply too happy and soft to do anything about it.

“Kotatsu…”

Kotatsu stiffened. Was Ace annoyed he was making such a noise? Should he leave?

But Ace just buried his face deeper still into Kotatsu’s fur, and moments later he was snoring gently. Kotatsu smiled, peaceful and surrounded so perfectly by that delicious heat. This was bliss. Paradise. Right here, curled up with Ace. He never wanted to leave.

And he never wanted that silly bird man to come through that door again.

 

 


	25. Play (E-rated)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note this is rated Explicit for sexual content. Marco/Ace.
> 
> It's been a while since we've had something dirty here, so here you go!
> 
> Thanks to justaguest (again) for putting this idea in my head ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Marco was an observant guy. Stupidly so, if he was perfectly honest. Nothing got past him, not even instances like when Haruta stuck his tongue out behind his back or when Thatch muttered a hissed insult about his hair. They had both been smacked and scolded while glaring at Ace as he hooted with laughter at their misfortune.

So _of course_ Marco noticed this as well. _Of course_  he saw the way Ace twitched when Deuce yanked his shirt closed over his chest, berating him for _going half-naked_ and _being an embarrassment to the crew_  for thinking that strutting shirtless before the owner of a chain of five star hotels - a dear friend of Whitebeard’s who a select few were due to have dinner with that evening on land - was in any way appropriate.

Ace directed his glare at Marco rather than Deuce as the doctor continued to drone at him about proper attire, buttoning up his shirt for him because Ace was a stubborn ass and refused to do it himself.

And he saw Marco’s eyes narrow slightly when the fabric brushed against him again and he flinched.

Ah, _shit_ , this wasn’t going to end well. Ace barely even heard Deuce snap at him to keep still, his attention solely focused on that evil, knowing smirk that grew on Marco’s lips.

His damn thick lips that had to feel positively sinful when pressed to skin or pulled tight around the shaft of a cock. Ace couldn’t suppress the full body shudder that ran through him that was _not_ helped by the way his shirt shifted over his chest. After months of fucking his own fist while moaning Marco’s name into his pillow, it was damn difficult to not let his thoughts stray south whenever he saw his fellow commander. It _certainly_ didn’t help that Marco seemed interested too, making what Ace could only surmise as bad attempts at flirting with him every so often, and doing things like looking at him like _that_.

Deuce flicked him on the forehead to bring his attention back to him, and Ace pouted at his former first mate.

“Behave yourself tonight,” Deuce said, his tone promising punishment if he heard that Ace did not stay on his best behavior, “no stripping, no getting drunk, and no falling asleep in your food.”

Ace frowned, affronted - he didn’t _choose_ to fall asleep into his dinner. Deuce knew that, knew the trigger of his goddamn narcolepsy was talking while eating. It wasn’t _Ace’s_ fault that they’d run out of medication yet again and he was left at the mercy of his own stupid brain now.

So he concentrated, or rather, did his best to concentrate that evening when they sat down to their dinner. The shirt was a huge distraction, the thin material rubbing and slipping over his firm chest with almost every movement of his arms, and Ace had to really, _really_ work to not react every damn time. And it wasn’t made any easier by having Marco sit opposite him, the blond practically leering at him all through the meal and very obviously not taking in a word that Pops and his successful business-owner friend exchanged.

Ace felt rather smug when he accidentally flinched and gasped at the feel of the material rubbing over him as he reached a hand behind his back to thumb at an itch there. Marco shifted opposite him, his eyes trained on Ace’s chest, and when Ace glanced down to see if maybe he’d dropped his soup down himself, he saw that Marco’s interest had been piqued by Ace’s nipples poking erect through the shirt.

And so Ace grinned - no, _smirked_  - at Marco. _You like that, huh?_

And he could tell by the heavy darkness in Marco’s eyes that yes, yes he did.

Ace had a ready-made excuse to leave the dinner party early in Thatch, the chef drinking more than he normally would have in polite company as he was unable to refuse the strikingly pretty young lady who served them wine throughout the night. And Ace also knew Thatch was a bad drunk with wine.

“I love you, Ace,” Thatch slurred into his neck, his entire body weight slumping against his shorter friend as he was practically carried onto the Moby Dick, “you take such good care of ol’ Thatchie, my lovely boy.”

Ace leaned his face away as Thatch tried to plant a sloppy kiss on his cheek, laughing at how wrecked the chef was.

Thatch was dumped unceremoniously on his bed once they made it to his room, whimpering and patting around for more alcohol as Ace tugged the blanket over him. He mumbled something incoherent about being a better chef than whoever had made their dinner at the hotel, and fell blessedly silent as sleep pulled him under.

Ace shook with suppressed laughter as the first of the snores began, and _fuck_  that was a bad move. The shirt pulled at him, slipping deliciously light and teasing over his nipples and sending jolts of pleasure straight to his cock again. Ace bit back a moan for perhaps the thousandth time that night and hastily backed out of Thatch’s room, not wanting to be caught standing there with a raging hard-on; that would be great fun to explain away if Thatch woke up again.

A hand thumped to the door of Thatch’s room as Ace clicked it closed, and Ace unwittingly stepped back into a broad, strong chest. He hadn’t been aware anyone was there, but it didn’t take a genius to guess who stood behind him. His breath hitched as that hand’s twin circled around his chest and began to unbutton his shirt, pulling more gasps and shudders at the feel of the material tickling at his skin.

“So _this_  is why you don’t button up your shirts,” Marco’s voice hissed into his left ear, and Ace _trembled._ “I always assumed it was because your devil fruit made you too hot. You _are_ a dirty boy, aren’t you, Ace?”

Ace arched his back into that hand pulling his shirt open and swallowed a whine. Marco pressed in a little closer, nuzzling his nose in to the sensitive skin just behind Ace’s left ear; the scratch of his beard to Ace’s neck left the young man breathless, his nerves tingling and senses already intensely heightened by the hours of teasing the shirt had subjected him to. _Fuck_ he was so hard, too, pressing almost painfully in the pants he had been instructed to wear by Deuce instead of his usual shorts.

“Me? Dirty?” Ace’s small laugh left him in a shaky breath, “I think you’ll find _I’m_  not the one undressing my crewmate in the middle of a corridor.”

Marco hummed and pressed his lips to Ace’s neck softly, teasing, and Ace felt the smirk to his skin in response to his shudder.

God _fuckit_ what he wouldn’t give to feel those lips suck and bite at his nipples - they were so hard, so sensitive, his pectoral muscles under his skin actually trembling in desperate _need_ for attention to the area.

Ace gasped, the sound rolling into a moan as Marco pulled back slightly and slipped the shirt from Ace’s shoulders, letting it pool around his feet on the floor. His hands returned with a vengeance, sliding firm over Ace’s abdomen before coming to a stop just below his nipples, and Ace _whined_ , not caring for a second how gone he sounded in that moment. He could feel himself leaking in his underwear at the touch, at that teasing, and he thrust his hips slightly into the open air.

“Yes, you.” Marco’s voice was low and gravelly, sending shockwaves of aching desire through Ace. “You’re goddamn filthy, Ace.” Ace groaned and dropped his head backwards to rest on Marco’s shoulder, tilting it to the right slightly when Marco ran his tongue up the column of Ace’s neck slowly, so fucking _slowly_. Ace’s chest swelled with his deep inhale, trying so hard to entice Marco’s fingers into pinching his hardened nubs, but he wasn’t giving it to him, not yet, in any case, thumbs pressing and circling against his ribs instead.

The shitty bastard.

“Marco,” Ace hissed, not caring how he sounded, his mind blissfully blank to any thoughts other than _touchmetouchmetouchme_ , “if you’ve figured it out then _do something already_ , please, _please_.” He didn’t have the patience to play, to dance around the subject before getting to the main event, to even tease Marco further about feeling up random members of the crew out in the open. He didn’t care if he sounded desperate because he _was_ desperate, and if Marco didn’t touch him properly soon then he’d be forced to just go for it and take care of himself, Marco watching or not.

And Marco grinned; Ace cant his hips backwards into the feel of Marco’s own erection pressing hot into the cleft of his ass, and he couldn’t help but feel a little proud to be the cause of Marco’s arousal.

“Tell me,” Marco rasped against his ear, one hand sliding back down Ace’s abdomen to cup at his wet erection through his pants, “have you ever been able to come from just having your chest played with? Or is this something you’d like me to test right now?”

Ace’s head was swimming with lust - Marco’s hand cupping him gripped him a little harder, the cock against his ass ground into him with every small rock of Marco’s hips, and holy _shit_ if this wasn’t the hottest thing Ace had done since joining the crew. Maybe he should have just jumped Marco months ago when he had first noticed him staring with more than brotherly love in his eyes.

“I’ve never—” Ace gasped as Marco’s teeth brushed against his throat lightly, testing him, before nipping at the skin. Ace writhed against him, hips twitching forward again, and he barely managed to say, “I’ve tried, but I couldn’t— got so close, though—”

And Marco moved, his hands finally, _finally_  cupping his firm chest, fingers curling to gently pinch at and tug Ace’s stupidly sensitive nipples. It was like a dam bursting within him, the touch ripping through him like electricity and Ace had to bite his own fingers to stop himself crying out.

“That’s right,” Marco huffed into the curve of his neck to shoulder, his pelvis grinding into the swell of his ass more insistently as Ace moaned around his own fingers, “keep it down, or you’ll wake Thatch.”

“Then can’t we just— just move to my room? It’s right there—”

“No.” Ace felt the wicked smile to his skin, and those fingers twisted his nipples almost cruelly; Ace felt like he was going to cry with the intensity of it. “You’re going to come right here, right outside Thatch’s room, while trying to hold back your voice. And then…” Ace jerked into Marco’s hands at his chest, cock leaking like a faucet under the older man’s ministrations, “ _then_ I’m going to take you to your room and fuck you into your mattress. I’ve seen the way you look at me, Ace. I’ve been waiting for you to make your move for months, but you’re just so _stubborn_.”

His awareness was leaving him, his skin hypersensitive and body thrumming with lust. He couldn’t stop his pants, his gasps and wanton moans as Marco built him up to the brink, rubbing and pinching and flicking at his rosy buds. He didn’t want this to end, this perfect moment of delicious ache and excitement, but the promise of having Marco’s cock buried to the hilt inside him was alluring in it’s own right.

“Same goes for you,” Ace panted, slipping a hand down behind his back and cupping Marco’s cock, feeling the heat and the weight of it in his palm, and _god_ Marco was not small, not by any stretch of the imagination, and Ace’s mouth watered at the thought of having it open him up and fill him. “You’re not exactly _ahh_ — a master of mystery yourself. I’ve seen the way you stare at my— my ass when I bend over. And those pick-up lines y-you came out with at the bar on that last island were _dreadful_ ; did you a-actually think those would get me into—”

He cut himself off with a whine that was hastily swallowed by Marco turning his face towards his own and pressing their lips together. Ace opened his mouth to Marco’s tongue, sliding wet and insistent against his own, and his arousal spiked deep in his stomach.

He was about to come just from Marco’s fingers at his nipples, each twist and pull and rub sending sparks cascading along his nerves and curling the heat inside him tighter. His head felt light as he closed his eyes to the feel of Marco kissing him senseless, and then it went perfectly blank and white.

His balls tightened and his cock throbbed hot against the fabric of his pants as Ace spasmed, his cry swallowed eagerly as he came. Marco worked him through it and Ace felt like he was going insane from the pull at his chest, his skin alive with _fire_ and— shit, he actually _was_ on fire, and Marco’s flickered into life to greet it, to meld with it, and Ace was drowning in bliss and heat and desire.

He panted against Marco’s lips as he came down from his high, body trembling from the intensity of it and already aching for more. Marco gave his chest one final squeeze with his palms before he spun Ace on the spot and pushed him up against the closed door of Thatch’s room, grinding his own arousal into Ace’s spent cock.

“You are _delicious_ ,” Marco groaned, sliding his palms along Ace’s waist and earning a shudder from the younger man, “I’ve never been able to make someone come just from nipple play. _Fuck_ , Ace,” and Marco sucked his lower lip between his own, making Ace writhe, “you’re too much.”

Ace had just enough awareness about him to feel a flutter of pride at how wrecked Marco sounded, pressing his tongue into that wet mouth once again.

His fingers dragged teasing down Marco’s painfully hard cock, palming at it when his hips stuttered forwards. “You still want to take this back to my room?” he grinned, dark gray meeting lust-heavy blue as Marco opened his eyes from the kiss.

“God, _yes_.”

 

 


	26. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short piece about Marco and Thatch as little kids. I want to do a full-blown fic about how Thatch joined the crew way back when, but I headcanon that he joined around the same sort of age that Ace did. However, having these two get adopted by Dadbeard as children is also adorable... and I doubt Marco would have been open to sharing at first. However, I don't think he would have been a cruel kid no matter how he felt about sharing his Pops.

“Marco?”

Marco sighed loudly at the sound of his name being whispered from the doorway, hoping that it was heard by the boy who stood there. Sure enough, the newbie, Thatch, whimpered at his obvious annoyance, and as Marco rolled over he could see Thatch’s outline shrinking away out of sight.

He didn’t like him. Not that Marco had anything to go on yet. But that still didn’t stop him from regarding Thatch as a rival for his Pops’ love.

Pops had introduced the two boys only a week ago now, smiling gently as his first son flashed blue and gold in fierce defence, guarding himself against the trembling boy with the mousy brown hair. Marco didn’t care if Thatch was also nine years old - the same age as him - and he also didn’t care if Thatch had managed to escape from an abusive family. He didn’t have to come _here_ , be picked up and adopted by _his_ Pops and leave Marco feeling threatened. Pops didn’t need two sons of the same age. Vista was fine - Vista was older than him and more independent, not one for cuddling with Pops and sitting with him whenever he could like Marco did. Plus, Marco had been _first_ , and Thatch could stuff it.

“Go away,” he said, leaning up on an elbow and frowning at Thatch’s form in the dark, “go back to your own room and leave me alone.”

Thatch sounded like he was close to tears when he replied. “But it’s scary sleeping alone, and Pops snores too loudly to sleep in there…”

Fury stabbed at Marco’s chest and his shoulders lit up in a blaze of cyan, highlighting his cheeks but throwing his eyes into shadow. He must have looked eerie because Thatch squeaked and visibly trembled.

So Thatch had thought it appropriate to try and worm his way into _his_ father’s bed in his quest for comfort, had he?

“Why can’t you sleep alone?” Marco snapped, “it’s just a bit of thunder.”

Only it was significantly more than a bit of thunder. The ship creaked loudly around them, buffeted by the violent storm that raged outside. Thunder suddenly clapped overhead and the small room was illuminated by a flash of lightning. While Marco simply noted that this meant the storm was almost directly on top of them, Thatch reacted in a completely different way; he squealed and ran into the room, trembling from head to foot as he dove into Marco’s bed next to him.

“Get out!” Marco hissed, trying to shove Thatch back out by the shoulders, but the petrified boy wouldn’t move, “I don’t want you in here!”

But Thatch was deaf to his protests in his terror, burying his face into Marco’s stomach and gripping him so tight around the middle that Marco felt a little sick. Honestly, this was so pathetic - who was afraid of thunder and lightning? Thatch wouldn’t last long as a pirate apprentice if he reacted like that to something that couldn’t even hurt him.

“What a joke,” Marco muttered to himself, giving up on trying to push Thatch away and just looking at the top of his head. “Hey, you can’t sleep here, I don’t like sleeping close to other people. Grow a back bone and get the hell back to your room.”

“Please!” Thatch wailed into Marco’s t-shirt, the sound muffled, “I know it’s stupid! I know I’m an idiot! But you’re my brother, Marco!”

Marco’s eyes went wide as the room lit up with another streak of lightning. Thatch sobbed against him, his iron-like hold around Marco’s midsection tightening.

Hadn’t Pops told him that when he had brought Thatch on board? Hadn’t he introduced Thatch as Marco’s newest brother, rather than as his own new son? He had asked Marco to look after Thatch, to show him kindness and compassion like he had been shown by Pops himself, to protect him and to help him like a good big brother.

Only Marco was not being a good big brother at all.

“You actually think of me as your brother?” Marco asked, and Thatch nodded against him. “Why?”

“Because you are!” Thatch said, finally raising his face to look up at him. He was a complete state - Marco’s flames (which had not died down) highlighted the boy’s puffy eyes, the tears sparkling on his cheeks, the snot dripping down his— ew. He looked positively tragic. “You’re my brother now and that’s that!”

Maybe things were just that much simpler in Thatch’s world, Marco supposed. Maybe he genuinely found it that easy to accept a stranger as his brother simply because Pops had told him to do so.

“I haven’t g-got anyone else,” Thatch cried, “and Pops saved me, just like he saved you. He told me,” Thatch added as Marco gasped in surprise, “he told me all about you and Vista. And I want to be a good brother to you, too!”

Marco rolled his eyes when Thatch collapsed into noisy tears again, and to his own surprise he patted the terrified boy gently on the head. The room went dark again as Marco’s flames quelled, and Thatch buried his face back into the other boy with a squeak.

Really, what choice was he left with? He could physically kick Thatch out of his bed, he was sure of it, but while Marco still didn’t like him he also wasn’t heartless enough to pretend he didn’t know what abject terror felt like… only his had been directed at real threats, not something as trivial as a simple thunderstorm. And if Thatch really did already love him as a brother, wouldn’t the right thing to do be to look after his sibling? Ah, but that would mean defeat - that would mean that Marco accepted this newcomer, this rival for his father’s attention, and he couldn’t have that.

But he felt himself softening when the loudest clap of thunder yet rang through the bedroom, making Thatch sob harder against him. For all his anger and the ache of betrayal, he felt a little bit sorry for the poor idiot. And really, if he thought about it, perhaps it wasn’t actually Thatch’s fault that he was now part of the family. He clearly didn’t have a problem with sharing Pops, in any case, and Vista had been overjoyed to welcome the nervous child into the crew that Pops was assembling. Maybe it was Marco who was the odd one out here.

“Fine,” he mumbled, scooting over a bit to give Thatch more room, “you can stay here on one condition - you stop. Crying.”

Thatch shut up immediately, and when Marco peered down at him curiously to see if perhaps he had just gone deaf, he saw Thatch biting his bottom lip so hard it was beginning to bleed.

Marco sighed dramatically. “Don’t do that, you idiot,” he scolded, “stop it.”

Blue flames sparked to life at the tip of his index finger and he held it close to Thatch’s face. Thatch, though still shivering violently, managed to calm his heaving sobs just enough to let go of his lip from between his teeth and let Marco work his magic. The mousy-haired boy gasped in amazement as the small cut healed in an instant, and he touched his lip tentatively.

“That’s amazing!” he gasped, giving Marco a watery smile, and Marco puffed out his chest in pride. “Pops told me you could heal yourself, but I didn’t know it worked on other people too!”

“Yeah, it’s pretty awesome,” Marco said in what he hoped to be a nonchalant tone, “I can grow back my own body parts if I need to, but it doesn’t work _that_ well on others.”

Thatch looked awed, temporarily forgetting his fears in the face of such an amazing discovery.

“So if I get really beaten up in a fight, you’ll be able to make me better?”

Marco frowned. “I guess.”

“That is _so_ cool. You’re the coolest brother _ever_. Oh,” Thatch looked worried all of a sudden, “but don’t tell Vista that. I think he’s cool too.”

Marco couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at the corners of his lips.

He turned to face the wall and settled back down onto his side, and to his annoyance he felt Thatch snuggle down too and throw his arm over Marco’s waist. He cuddled close, the shivers of fear still trembling through his body despite calming down a little, and Marco resigned himself to a sleepless night.

“No more talking,” he said curtly, “and if you snore I’m throwing you out.”

He felt Thatch giggle against his back. “Thanks, Marco,” he said quietly, “I’m glad you’re my brother.”

That didn’t make him tingle with pride and, dare he say it, happiness. No, it didn’t. Not even a little bit.

 

 


	27. Laughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normal, relaxed, everyday moments in the Whitebeard crew are nice too...

It was always nice to mix up who you sat with at mealtimes, Rakuyo thought. He would make a point of sitting with someone new most days - catching up with familiar faces from other divisions, perhaps spending some time with one of the commanders that he saw less frequently, or sometimes simply just chatting with the boys under his own command. They were a massive crew spanning multiple ships, after all, and so he was constantly spoiled for choice.

And so because of his habit of changing his dining partners on the daily, Rakuyo had only had the chance to sit with their baby commander, Ace, a small handful of times. Each time the boy had been engaging, fun, and downright disgusting to watch, even by the crew’s somewhat slack table manner standards.

So when Rakuyo spotted an empty seat beside the Fire Fist boy one evening, he happily made his way over to his fellow commander and set his tray down beside him. Ace smiled up at him and grabbed for the jug of mead that was doing the rounds on the table, pouring a drink for Rakuyo.

Everything was fine and normal until around halfway through the meal - they discussed Rakuyo’s most recent adventure on an island full of cannibals (that his men had barely escaped from, yet found highly amusing in hindsight), his suspicions that Haruta was hooking up with one of the nurses (he never could keep a straight face whenever she was nearby), and the thrilling tale of how Thatch’s den-den mushi had been discovered residing in Whitebeard’s impressive moustache (following Thatch’s tears of frustration and Izou taking pity on him, bringing the prank to an end).

Ace swayed suddenly, his voice trailing off mid-sentence, and Rakuyo watched in horror as he collapsed, face-first, into his dinner with a soft splat. The older pirate was on his feet immediately, panic-stricken and shaking Ace’s limp form by the shoulder.

“Someone get a nurse!” Rakuyo cried, terror apparent to all who watched him with expressions of… amusement? “the boy’s just collapsed! I think—” he shook him more insistently, feeling the dead weight of his friend under his touch, “God, I think he’s _dead!”_

Why were the men laughing? This wasn’t funny! He had never seen a person just _drop_ like that before, not in the absence of seastone, in any case.

“Relax, Commander,” one of the men at the table, a hairy man from the second division, laughed, “he ain’t dead.”

“Yeah,” another piped up, “watch his back; he’s breathing.”

“He won’t be for long if he keeps his face in his stew like that, poor bastard.”

“Who’s turn is it to wake him?”

Wake him?

 _Wake_ him?

“I’m not goin’ near him again, not after he sprayed me with potato last time,” yet another man from further down the table grumbled.

“Be a good lad and move the boy, Hendry, go on,” the second man addressed the hairy one, “he’s creeping Commander Rakuyo out, look at him.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Rakuyo said, feeling himself shaking with adrenaline, “he can’t be asleep, how could anyone fall asleep like—”

Rakuyo yelled in shock as Ace sat upright out of nowhere, gasping loud as if he had just resurfaced from the sea after a deep dive, rather than from his dinner. Raucous laughter thundered down the table at the sight of Ace’s face dripping with stew, confused and dazed and looking up at Rakuyo stood beside him as he moved to wipe his eyes.

“Narcolepsy!” Hendry roared, brandishing his tankard at Ace, “the best fuckin’ party trick in the book!”

They collapsed into laughter again as Ace grinned, bemused, at them, looking completely out of it but infected by their laughter nonetheless.

Rakuyo shook on the spot, wildly unsettled and desperate for an answer to what the hell had just happened. Was this normal? Judging by the reactions of the men, and by Ace’s own apparent lack of concern, it was.

“Sleep disorder,” one of the men said to Rakuyo, taking pity on his continued horrified expression, “poor fucker goes down at least once a week. Can’t believe you haven’t heard anyone taking bets on when he’s next gonna drop.”

Ace grunted in annoyance into the paper napkin someone had handed him. “You guys bet on me?” he asked, frowning at the men of his division who just dissolved into more peals of laughter in response. “Thanks for your concern, I’m _so_ touched,” he added sarcastically.

“Isn’t there a cure?” Rakuyo asked, sitting back down in his seat and taking a napkin himself, wiping at Ace’s hair for him, “or medication or something?”

“Yeah,” Ace said, wiping at his eyes one last time before balling the napkin up and flicking it at Hendry, “but I’d need to give up on booze for it; I don’t care what Deuce says, there’s no way I’m doing that.”

“And we’d miss the dinnertime entertainment!” the man beside Rakuyo laughed, leaning around him to look at his commander, “keep it up, Commander, I’ve bet you’ll drop again on Sunday - don’t you let me down!”

Ace laughed as well, finally setting Rakuyo’s mind at ease, “I’ll want half your winnings if I do,” he played along.

“Done! Just hold out ‘til then!”

This crew never ceased to amaze Rakuyo, and their newest addition sure did add a lot of hilarity to the mix.

“Maybe I should place a bet as well,” Rakuyo mused, stroking his moustache, “how regularly would you say this happens?”

“Oh come on, Raku,” Ace laughed, trying his best to fake a whine, “not you too!”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Narcolepsy with cataplexy - which Ace has - is a serious condition in real life and shouldn't be treated lightly. However, they're pirates, and as long as Ace isn't in immediate danger, you bet they're gonna laugh their asses off at him ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	28. Broken

A shadow fell over Marco, cast from behind him. He looked up, tearing his eyes away from the book he was reading, to see Ace staring down at him, thrown into shadow himself by the sun behind him.

“Afternoon,” Marco said pleasantly, squinting a little against the bright blue of the sky framing Ace, “to what do I owe this pleasure?”

It was rare for Ace to come and seek him out, given that he usually trailed after Thatch like an obedient puppy these days. Thatch had the boy well trained this late into his self-imposed mission of taking Pops’ head, spending the last three months babying him and coddling him far more than Marco himself deemed strictly necessary.

Ace shifted his weight from foot to foot, frowning down at the commander. Marco waited, knowing by now that to try and push Ace when he wasn’t ready to speak usually led to the boy leaving in a flurry of flames. It didn’t matter what the subject was, the result was almost always the same - he had gone and hidden himself in a furious fit of embarrassment two days before simply because Thatch hadn’t known when to stop prodding him to reveal his favorite sex position. The crew had almost died laughing the next morning when, out of the blue, Ace had approached Thatch only to yell “doggy!” at him before disappearing again in a blaze of crimson.

Marco held back a grin at the memory of Thatch laughing himself into a coughing fit at the incident.

The sun almost blinded Marco when Ace moved to sit down beside him instead. Marco blinked away the tears rapidly, turning to the boy beside him to watch as he made a scene of trying to extract something from the blue pouch secured to his shorts leg. The tips of Ace’s ears were fiercely pink, Marco noticed with a smile.

“I broke it,” Ace muttered, not turning back to Marco as he spoke, “well, actually, Stephan did. He jumped up at me and…”

“Broke what?”

Ace patted at his collarbone, and it was only then that Marco noticed that the signature red beaded necklace that usually hung there was missing.

“Oh. That’s a shame.”

Marco didn’t press the matter further, didn’t say anything about why Ace was telling him this or why he was here. He waited, watching the way the sea breeze caressed Ace’s hair, finally understanding why Thatch kept insisting that Ace was actually really cute once he dropped his guard a little.

Ace turned back to face him suddenly, frown pulling his brows tight together to make him look angry, the effect entirely ruined by the prominent blush that colored his freckled cheeks. Marco wanted to pat his head like a child in that moment.

“Here,” Ace said, thrusting his hands out to Marco, holding out what looked like his broken necklace to him, “please fix it.”

Marco held out his hands to allow Ace to tip the beads out, a bright cascade of red glinting in the sun as they fell.

“Can’t you do it yourself?” Marco asked, and the look on Ace’s face made him realise he’d said the wrong thing.

“It’s too fiddly,” Ace mumbled, dropping his gaze to the beads and glaring at them as if it were their fault, “I’m not all that good with intricate things like this. Lock-picking is one thing, but this... And…” he lowered his voice further, as if he was admitting to something disgusting, “Teach said that you would… that you’re good with things like this…” he fidgeted, and Marco had the distinct impression that he was fighting back the urge to say something else.

“Well, I guess,” Marco said slowly, wondering what on earth Ace could be holding back on; he had never known the boy to avoid speaking his mind, “I mean, I can mend clothes and do surgical stitching, so I suppose this is no different, really.”

Ace nodded, then said in a rush, “is it true you like knitting?”

Marco threw his head back and laughed hard at the random question, thumping Ace on the back when he caught sight of his horrified expression at Marco’s reaction.

“Who told you _that?”_

“T-Teach did.”

“Teach is a lying bastard,” Marco said, laughter beginning to subside, “I don’t think we even have any knitting needles on board, in the first place.”

He lapsed back into laughter again at Ace’s mortified expression.

“Fine,” Ace huffed, “if you’re not gonna help, I’ll just take it back.”

Marco moved his hands away as Ace made to grab for his broken necklace, grinning at him. “Hey, hey, I never said I wouldn’t do it. Just maybe don’t trust everything that Teach tells you from now on.”

“I don’t trust any of you people,” Ace said angrily, but Marco just shook his head.

“Sure you do,” he said easily, “you trust Thatch. You trust me.”

“I do _not_.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“I don’t!”

Ace was on his feet and ready to storm off immediately, cheeks and ears flaming red with embarrassment. Marco just chuckled and pulled him back down by his belt, cupping the beads to his chest in one hand.

“Settle down, Fire Fist,” he snickered as Ace collapsed gracelessly beside him, “let’s get this fixed, shall we? Look,” he held out his cupped hands to Ace, tipping the beads back into his palms when Ace mirrored him to receive them, “you hold on to those and I’ll thread them back onto the string. The clasp has broken off the string on one end, that’s all; it’s easily fixable.”

Ace’s face lit up, anger apparently already forgotten. “Really?” he asked, and Marco actually felt his heart twinge at the sincere eagerness on Ace’s features, “you can fix it right now?”

“Yep.” Marco didn’t feel it necessary to add that it would be an incredibly easy fix, simply threading the beads back on to the string and retying the end to the little metal clasp.

They set to work, heads together and talking quietly as Marco threaded the beads back on, both completely unaware that they were being watched by a small gaggle on onlookers.

“See?” Thatch hissed to Whitebeard, who was having enormous difficulty staying out of sight of the pair sitting close together, “didn’t I tell you? Marco’s taking my place as babysitter!”

“They’re getting along too well,” Vista nodded solemnly, “next thing you know, Marco will be asking for the boy to join his division.”

“He better not,” Thatch said indignantly, “Ace is joining the fourth; I’m not letting his newly discovered cooking skills go to waste.”

Whitebeard began to chuckle, but was silenced by a chorus of hasty “shush!”es by the others. “Sons,” he whispered as quietly as he could, “this is good, don’t you see? The more he opens up to you all, the sooner he will join us properly. Don’t interrupt them, Thatch, there’s a good lad.”

Thatch huffed and folded his arms tight across his chest. They watched in silence as Marco finished threading the beads on and tied the string back to the clasp, then leaned in to secure it back around Ace’s neck for him. He tousled Ace’s hair affectionately, and Ace ducked his head in an attempt to hide his painfully obvious blush.

Thatch frowned. “Oh no, he doesn’t,” he growled, “no one’s taking over as Ace’s new best friend, not even Marco.”

“Thatch, leave them alone!”

“They’ll notice us!”

“Ah, too late, he’s spotted us.”

And sure enough, Marco had seen them. He gave them a sarcastic, cheery wave behind Ace’s back, and then turned back to say something to Ace that made him laugh.

“Did you see that?” Thatch hissed, “did you see?” He stepped out into view from behind the wall they were all peering around, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, “oi, Ace!” Thatch danced out the way of Vista’s hands grabbing for the back of his shirt as Ace turned around in surprise. “Marco’s favorite position is doggy-style, too!”

“Why _that_ , of all things?!” Vista moaned, slapping a palm to his forehead as Whitebeard threw back his head and roared with laughter, giving away that they were there too.

And no one saw Ace again until the next afternoon when he was discovered hiding in a store room, still frantically embarrassed.

 

 


	29. Unexpected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the angel who asked for Baby Ace. Just. Thank you. I want to do more with this idea because the potential is just overwhelming.

No one could quite say how it had happened, despite many of them being present when it had occurred. Hell, Pops himself had been there, rising out of his enormous chair on deck, fist swinging to grasp his bisento despite Marco’s insistence that he didn’t need to trouble himself with such small fry.

They had been arrogant, cocky, the commanders present at that moment approaching the single, lone enemy with something of a swagger, eager for the entertainment after days of annoying each other to alleviate their boredom. There were only so many times they could wipe the floor with Thatch at poker, and drawing dicks on Ace's face when the narcolepsy hit lost it's charm after a while, so they had all been keen to see if this nobody could amuse them for a few minutes, at best.

Only he had done far better than any of them could have hoped.

This man, this short, skinny, twig of a human had cried something about no one ever appearing on the outside as they were on the inside, that people built walls and hid their insecurities deep within. He had brandished a sharp finger at Whitebeard, crying that one among them was not like the others, that he knew, that he had learned the secret of the devil who had come to rest in their midst and walk among them. And then he had thrown his hands up into the sky, clapped once with the force of thunder, and declared that he who was tormented beyond his years would be struck down, would perish as he was, and would be reborn to the world to try once more.

"Only attaining what the Devil Child truly craves, what He walks this Earth to seek, shall break the spell and shatter my illusion!" he had cackled madly, throwing his face up to the sky and addressing the clouds above him.

No one knew what the hell he was talking about, and they had closed in on him, cautious, careful around one who seemed intoxicated by substances that they could only guess at.

And then Ace had collapsed beside Thatch without warning, without so much as a stumble.

And a bright light had blinded all on deck, a light that seemed to emanate directly from the stranger's palms pressed together above his head.

And all hell had broken loose.

Blue, flaming fingers grasped the unknown man's thin neck, wrapping tight around his windpipe as Marco hauled him to the side of the Moby Dick and threw him overboard, not waiting to watch him hit the waves below. The crew was in panic, and he himself felt clammy and faint as he hurried back to the mob of crew surrounding their youngest commander, terror beating in his heart. He had failed to protect his brother, had let something foul befall him right under his nose, he had—

But Ace was gone. Ace was nowhere to be seen, and instead, to everyone's complete bewilderment, sat a child where he had fallen to the deck. A tiny boy, perhaps no more than a year old, maybe less - none of them had any proper experience with children so could only hazard a guess - with a smattering of freckles over his chubby cheeks, sat looking up at them in a kind of vaguely interested manner, mouth hanging open. 

The crew just stared at him for several seconds, and the little boy stared right back, big, dark eyes falling on Thatch's pompadour and shining with interest. He reached out to it, grabbing at the air, and Thatch reacted in the only way he feasibly could - he leaned down, scooped the naked child up in his arms, and held him to his chest. The others looked at Ace's belongings crumpled on the floor - his shorts, necklace, boots, and various effects - and looked back to the child with a collective sense of dumbstruck, slowly dawning realisation.

And then noise, noise of the kind that belonged to a festival or a war, even, broke out, everyone talking at once, yelling, pointing at the little boy clinging to Thatch's shirt and babbling.

"Kid looks like Ace, don't 'e?"

"Look, he's got his freckles!"

"How the fucking fuck did he—"

"That guy's gotta be a Devil Fruit user - Marco, you just threw him to his death!"

" _That's_ your concern?"

"It's Ace! The kid's Ace! He's gotta be!"

"Ooh, little Acey!"

The child squealed with delight as he was plucked out of Thatch's arms by Izou, who twirled him around at arm's length. He brought him in to land safely tucked up in his arms, cradling the boy and looking down at him fondly; Baby Ace made grabby hands at the strand of hair that slipped out of Izou's carefully pinned back style, squeaking for it.

"This is absurd," Whitebeard rumbled over the tumult of noise the men were generating, shaking his head, "how did that man know? How could he have learned the truth?"

"Who cares?" Thatch said, wiggling a finger in Baby Ace's face; he caught it in his fist and rammed it in his mouth immediately, gumming Thatch's finger contentedly. "He's so cute, Pops, can we keep him like this?"

They didn't really have a choice in the matter. Namur dove overboard to find the sinking man and bring him back on deck, but he had disappeared without a trace. No one doubted Namur's ability to locate his prey in the water, all finding it somewhat unnerving to think that such a person had managed to escape. It also left them with the problem of having no idea or means to turn Ace back to his usual self.

Not that anyone seemed to care, to say the least.

Baby Ace, it quickly became apparent, was a happy, sweet child who liked nothing more than to be fussed and played with. Izou fashioned him a diaper out of an old, unused scarf of his and he was good to go, roaming the long halls below deck merrily, babbling nonsense as he crawled after whoever was on babysitting duty that hour. All of the men wanted in, squabbling and fighting over who's turn it was to keep their baby crew-mate amused.

Baby Ace had the best time ever getting strapped to Thatch's chest in a makeshift sling when the chef was cooking, the child waving his stubby little fingers hopefully at the bubbling pans and burbling away. He shrieked with utter delight when he was secured to Marco's back and taken for a fly around the fleet, his hair wild and expression one of a child who had seen every mystery of the universe in under five minutes when they touched back down. He didn't want to let get of Marco, wailing and clinging to his flaming feathers when two of his division tried to lift him back down. With a howl of rage he burst into flames himself, scaring everyone in the vicinity off and subjecting the phoenix to a pleasant shock of warmth, like being dropped into a hot bath.

When Deuce's time came up he held his dribbling, babbling baby ex-captain out at arm's length, looking vaguely disgusted and wholly at a loss at what to do with him. "I don't like babies," he groaned, lip curling as a long string of saliva dangled precariously from Baby Ace's chin before snapping and dripping onto Deuce's shoe. "What do I do with it?"

"Him," Haruta, who had been on Ace Watch prior to the doctor, corrected him. "He's still Ace, just..." they watched the little boy blow an impressive saliva bubble; it burst, covering his face, and he giggled. "Moister."

"Ugh, I hate that word."

Pops had an absolute field day with the child, laughing himself hoarse as Baby Ace grabbed at his moustache, burying his damp cheeks into it and giggling madly. "Where's Acey gone?" Pops asked, then crying, "there he is!" when Baby Ace yanked his face back out of his father's whiskers. Pops laughed hard enough to shake the deck, Baby Ace squawking happily along with him.

Dinner time was a hilarious affair. While Baby Ace didn't provide entertainment with his narcolepsy tonight, he instead demonstrated his utter lack of coordination as he shoved food into his mouth by the fistful. He missed his target with a handful of mashed carrots, slapping them wetly into his cheek when he got distracted by Vista's wristwatch catching the light, and the crew howled with laughter at him. He chuckled back, clapping his carrot-mushed hands together cheerfully, and the pirates around him roared with more peals of laughter as the mash splattered all over the table.

"Ah, I don't want him to grow up again," Thatch whimpered with laughter, wiping his eyes as Baby Ace set off at a crawl down the long table, making a beeline for the huge plate of mashed potatoes at the other end, "he's so fucking funny like this. Do we have to try and find that dude? Do we really?"

Marco huffed at his friend and raised an eyebrow. He hated to be the voice of reason in a situation like this - one that involved Ace being arguably genuinely happier than any of them had ever known him - but someone had to do it. "You know we can't leave him like this," he said, fighting back the smile that threatened to break out as he watched Baby Ace slam his face into the pile of mash and  _scream_ a fit of giggles for apparently no other reason than to hear the sound of his own voice, "it wouldn't be right."

"Sure, but it'd raise morale plenty."

He had a point, but - "Ace raises morale as he is anyway."

Thatch grunted. "Can't argue with that. Hey, what do you think that weird guy meant by attaining what Ace craves? What _does_ he want?"

"Honestly?" Marco watched Baby Ace pull himself out of the mashed potato only to throw himself sideways into a joint of beef, drooling all over it and earning guffaws and snorts from all present, "right now, I'd place my bets on anything he can shove in his mouth."

Baby Ace enjoyed bath time after dinner in the care of Haruta and Rakuyo, screeching his mirth as they kicked up a furious splashing fight in the commanders' enormous bath that Curiel had installed himself. Baby Ace's preciously sweet giggles could be heard all the way down the corridor leading to the bathroom, and the three of them soon found themselves joined by Izou, Thatch, Namur and Vista, all of whom couldn't bear to miss out on the fun. It was a miracle that the little boy wasn't swept away by the current in the ensuing Battle of the Baths, slapping his fists joyously into the warm water as the commanders gradually forgot why they were all there and bath time turned into a battle zone. Baby Ace was rescued by Jozu when he came to see what all the commotion was about, and he was carted off to the kitchens with the giant in his quest for a nice, warm bottle of milk for the child.

They argued, yet again, over who would get Baby Ace overnight. Everyone wanted the infant with them, resulting in arm wrestling matches breaking out all over the deck and Deuce getting wrangled into playing referee because he was the only one who didn't see the appeal in getting slobbered all over in his sleep. Jozu forfeited almost straight away, though, hushing Baby Ace when his freckled face crumpled into a whine and he started crying, soothed easily by the bottle that had been dug out of an old, forgotten corner of a cupboard. He clutched at it and slurped away, eyelids drooping heavy despite the yells from the crew around them, nestling deeper into the folds of the bath towel he was tucked into.

"That was cheating, he looked at me funny!"

"Ref! Haruta knocked my elbow!"

" _Marco ow fuck shit you're breaking my fingers!"_

In the end - to avoid casualties from the increasingly brutal tactics used by the commanders more than anything else - they collectively decided that Pops would get Baby Ace overnight. It wasn't a bad compromise, all in all, but it was agreed that having his nurses periodically check in to make sure Pops hadn't rolled over and flattened the poor boy was a good idea. So they all turned in for the night one after the other, yawning and kissing the little boy on the top of his head as they passed him in Jozu's arms, not one of them in the mood for booze or card games that night for perhaps the first time ever.

And so Pops took his tiniest son off to bed, singing Baby Ace a song about rainbows and sunshine that he only knew half of the words to himself. He hauled himself into bed and lay the sleepy child to his chest, heart swelling with love for him as Baby Ace snuggled into him and sighed blissfully. Whitebeard had never had a child this young before, the youngest he had adopted so far being Haruta when he had been around the age of five, and the giant man was certain that this had to be the cutest little life he had ever seen before. He curled a large hand around the dot of a boy, stroking a thumb to his fluffy black hair and murmuring, "a son like you is a man's greatest treasure, Ace." Baby Ace smiled gently, sucking his thumb as he drifted off to sleep.

And by next morning it was all over.

All the laughter, the drool, the screaming and the hilarity.

For when Marco knocked on Pops' door to wake him for breakfast, he was met with the sight of Ace, back to his usual self with the soft navy towel from the night before wrapped around his hips, asleep on Whitebeard, arms thrown around his broad chest and snoring peacefully. It was a miracle that Whitebeard's own rumbling snores didn't wake the young man, given that they could be heard all the way down into the mess hall. Marco leaned against the doorway and watched them, smiling, glad that Ace really had found what he craved above all else.

Still, it was a shame that their newest source of entertainment had left so soon.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been gradually losing confidence in my writing over the last couple of weeks. I have impossibly high standards for myself (in life in general, not just writing) and I don't feel I'm meeting them. I worry and overthink about what I am delivering a lot. Re-reading sweet comments helps more than I can express, but then I go and compare myself to others on here, and... I don't measure up to those guys at all. I'm a bit embarrassed by my trash ;;;
> 
> I still have plenty of ideas for this series of one-shots, but turning them around might take longer because I keep getting perhaps 2000 words into something and then deleting it all ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ ya girl ain't easily pleased


	30. Proof (M-rated)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note this is M-rated for dirty talk and features MarcoAce.

“You make me smile,” Marco said, reaching out and tucking Ace’s hair behind one ear. “That’s why I love you.”

Ace frowned at him despite his cheeks coloring just _so_. “Thatch makes you smile too,” he countered, watching said chef lose yet again at poker and wail in despair as Haruta raked in his winnings, “and so does Pops, and Izou, and Vista, and—”

A finger laid to his lips silenced the young man immediately. Marco leaned in and kissed him, earning a sound of surprise from Ace at his boldness; no one in the crew knew about them, about how Ace had blurted out to Marco one night that he liked him, or how Marco had returned those feelings with vigor. It still somehow, miraculously, remained a secret that Ace sneaked into Marco’s room every night, heating up the small room and keeping the cold at bay, leaving Marco feeling fulfilled in a way he had never known, cared for quite unlike anything his brothers and father could ever hope to provide.

“You asked me why I love you, so I told you,” Marco said as he broke the kiss; he didn’t move away, though, keeping his voice at a low whisper that was easily covered by the raucous noise of the crew. “I mean you make my soul smile. You make me feel _alive_. I have no other way to describe it.”

Ace looked away, casting his gaze down to the sea far, far below over the railing they leaned against. He looked conflicted, as he always did whenever Marco got romantic with his words, both believing him and yet struggling to understand _how_ Marco, how anyone, could truly love him.

“But I’m…” Ace bit his lip, a rare sign of vulnerability from someone so outwardly confident and sure of himself, “you know what I am,” he finished off bitterly.

And Marco kissed him again, a hand sliding behind his neck to gently hold him in place when Ace tried to pull away. Marco knew that words would never convince Ace. Actions never would, either. But that didn’t mean that Marco couldn’t try, regardless.

“I knew Roger,” Marco breathed, lips brushing Ace’s they were so close, feeling Ace’s quickened breaths on his cheeks and chin, his heat radiating off his skin, “and he was not the devil. He wasn’t a bad man, or a man to be hated. He was inspiring, and brave, and fearless. He was everything that any pirate should aspire to be - no, I’m serious,” he added, for Ace had snorted a derisive laugh, “he was. The world has turned the memory of him into something far greater, far more terrible than he ever was in life. He was just a man, nothing more. A man with the passion of a thousand. A man who would have surely loved his son beyond measure if he had ever had the chance to meet him.”

Gray met cobalt blue. Lips pressed to lips again - soft, tender, loving.

Ace kissed back, grabbing at Marco’s collar to pull him in.

It was nothing short of a damn miracle that no one had looked their way yet, because they were really playing with fire, kissing out in the open like this.

“You can’t know that,” Ace murmured when he broke the kiss.

“I can make an educated guess,” Marco said with a small smile. “And besides,” he dropped his voice a little further, his smile transforming into a smirk that had Ace visibly shivering, “I don’t give a shit who sired you when I have my tongue deep inside you.”

“Marco!” Ace gasped, looking around them quickly; no one was near them or paying them any attention whatsoever. “That’s really— you can’t _say_ things like—”

It got his desired reaction, though - Ace, despite his furious blush, looked like Marco’s words weren’t unwelcome in the slightest.

“And when you’re on top of me,” Marco hissed, leaning in to whisper his words directly into Ace’s blush-tipped ear, “riding my cock like your life depends on it, making those sweet, filthy sounds that you do…” he groaned for Ace’s benefit, enjoying the effect it had on the younger man, “I’m _really_ not thinking about Roger then. You could be the son of the most heinous, crazed murderer in the history of all of mankind, and I wouldn’t care. Because when I look at you,” he cupped Ace’s freckled cheek, running his thumb over the searing heat of his skin, “and when I talk to you, or kiss you, or take your dick down my throat, or pound your _amazingly_  hot ass—”

“ _Fuck_ , Marco—”

“—all I can think of is how much I love _you_. Just you. Not your past. Not your parents. You, Ace. As you are right now.”

Marco leaned back to study Ace’s face, thoroughly enjoying the look of shock mingled with arousal there.

“I love every single thing about you,” Marco said firmly, and his tone must have conveyed his honesty as Ace looked sobered, surprised, “and you make my heart smile.”

“You can’t just mix romantic crap in with those dirty things you said,” Ace frowned, but he didn’t look displeased. He was beginning to grin back, matching Marco’s lazy smirk almost perfectly.

Marco shrugged. “I think I can.” He had successfully achieved his goal of diverting Ace's thoughts away from his self-doubt like a true expert, and Marco couldn't help but feel a little proud of himself for it.

A warm hand stroked along Marco’s bare chest, fingers trailing down the center of Whitebeard’s mark before sliding along his abdomen, coming to a rest at his waist under his shirt. Ace’s eyes were lidded with the promise of sex, lustful and dark beneath his lashes. Marco sighed through his nose at the feel of Ace’s touch, smiling into the slow kiss that was laid to his lips.

“I think I need more convincing, y’know,” Ace whispered, looking up at Marco through his lashes, “I mean, I understand what you’re getting at, sure, but it would definitely help if you were to back up those words with some action…”

Marco hummed in thought at Ace’s proposition. “What did you have in mind?” he teased.

“Well,” Ace moved in a little closer with a glance over his shoulder, “that scene that you painted of me on top of you sounded pretty good…”

“Yeah?” Marco smiled, leaning in expectantly.

“Oh, yeah,” Ace replied, doing the same, “shit, Marco, I might have to let you take me right here on deck if we don’t—”

“Oi, Marco! Ace!” Thatch’s bellowed voice interrupted, making them both jump violently and swivel round, hearts racing; they had almost been caught red-handed. “What’re you whispering about? Get over here and whip this brat into shape!” he pointed at Haruta, who was clearly utterly annihilating him at their game of poker - Haruta had Thatch’s won shirt on over his own clothes, beaming and proud.

“No thanks,” Ace called back, still red in the face, “I’m gonna call it a night now, Thatch, and I think Marco is, too.”

“Nah,” Marco grinned, eyes twinkling with mirth at Ace’s look of horror, “I think I’ll entertain them for a round. You go on to bed, Ace - you look like you have a fever or something.”

“Marco, you fucking—”

But Marco leaned in close again, muttering, “get yourself prepared, and I’ll be there in 15. You’re not going to be sleeping tonight; I’ve got a _lot_ of love to _explain_ properly to you.”

And he left Ace flickering with flames along his shoulders and back, almost slipping in his haste to turn and hurry off to Marco’s bedroom.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a need for Marco talking dirty ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ sorry it's quick and short (and sorry for cockblocking yet again)
> 
> I can't believe I've gone almost two weeks without updating this collection - that's the longest it's been so far! I spent a long time on the most recent chapter of my longfic, Arrhythmia, and I've been planning a oneshot that I really want to write that has a working title of "mothfic". I can't wait to write it!
> 
> I'm very, very open to suggestions for this series btw! I absolutely love reading ideas you guys have - there are still a few that I want to do from the last time I asked for suggestions, but they will be a little longer and will require a little more thought put into them, but they will get done!
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](https://aishitekuretearigatou.tumblr.com/) if you want to come say hi!


	31. Inherited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ace's freckles are a gift. A GIFT. And he realises that too in this fic.
> 
> Sass from Deuce, love from Marco, and feelings aplenty for Ace. MarcoAce are a thing but it isn't the focus of the chapter.

“I need help,” Ace announced, sitting down beside Deuce at his desk.

Deuce laid down his pen on his notebook with a sigh, not all that pleased to have the topic of his current short story interrupting him in writing said short story. He was detailing the time Ace had sunk a ship full of threatening pirates a couple of miles east of the Moby, personally bringing each and every one of that crew back on board Whitebeard’s flagship and successfully convincing them to lay down their arms and join them. Ace, if nothing else, had a compelling power of persuasion, and now enjoyed having those same pirates under his command in the second division.

“You’re going to have to be more specific than that,” Deuce grumbled, turning to face his former captain. “Help with what? I’m not getting involved in your marital spat with my divisional commander, not after last time.”

“I’m not fighting with Marco,” Ace replied, looking surprised, “he only yelled at me because I surprised him badly enough to make him squawk like a bird. He was embarrassed, that’s all. He’s not used to being sneaked up on.”

Deuce didn’t look amused, regardless. “Well, that’s good. He’s ruthless when he’s in a bad mood.” He cracked his knuckles in his palm, hand aching from writing all morning. “So what do you need help with?”

Ace shuffled in his chair, looking uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Promise you won’t laugh?” he asked, shooting Deuce a look as if he already was.

“Depends on how stupid your problem is,” Deuce said with a shrug. “Try me. It can’t be worse than when you told me you have narcolepsy, can it?” Ace dropped his gaze, looking miserable. Deuce leaned in, concern piqued. “I’m sorry, that was mean. The narcolepsy gives you a certain charm, it’s not a bad thing… Well, medically it is, I guess…”

“That’s not it,” Ace said, waving a hand impatiently, “it’s…” He touched at his cheek, pausing before saying, “it’s these.”

Deuce frowned. “What?”

“ _These_ ,” Ace said more firmly, “the freckles.”

“Oh. What about them?”

Ace gave him an incredulous look, as if his problem should have been startlingly obvious. “I want to get rid of them.”

Deuce couldn’t help snorting a laugh. “Why? They’re cute.”

“That’s what Marco says about them, too,” Ace muttered, “and Thatch as well. Haruta, too.”

“So then what’s the problem?”

“They’re childish!” Ace huffed, suddenly looking annoyed, “I don’t want to be called _cute_ or _sweet,_ adults aren’t supposed to be covered in freckles. I don’t see anyone else in the crew with them.”

“What? They’re really common,” Deuce said, and for the life of him he couldn’t stop grinning now; of all the _problems_  Ace could have come to him with, this was the last thing he had expected, “my arms get freckly if I sit in the sun for too long, for example.”

“That’s different,” Ace snapped, “that happens to loads of people. _These_ ,” he jabbed a finger at his cheek again, “are permanent and don’t fade, like, _ever_. They never used to bother me until we joined here, and then all the guys started with the ‘ _ooh baby Acey, aren’t you a precious little darling'_ and shit like that!”

Deuce didn’t have the heart to tell him that the Spades had used to say things like that back in the day too, only they had had the good sense to not say it to their captain’s face or in earshot.

“So why’re you coming to me about them?” Deuce asked, raising an eyebrow when Ace sighed exasperatedly, “what, you think I can cure them or something?”

“Well, yeah,” Ace said, “I’ve tried everything I could think of to get rid of them.” Oh god, Deuce didn’t want to know what Ace had conjured up in his mind as conceivable ways of ridding himself of them. “I thought about filing them off with sandpaper, but—”

“—but you’re not _that_  ignorant of how the body works, surely,” Deuce finished off the sentence in a flat tone, mentally pleading that Ace hadn’t done something so idiotic, “that wouldn’t work.”

Ace nodded. “Right, so that was abandoned. Then Thatch said he’d heard that lemon juice can get rid of them, so I—”

“—so you rubbed a lemon all over your face?”

“Well, yeah.” Deuce dropped his forehead into his palms with a sigh. “Hey, whoa, don’t do that exasperated doctor bit, it’s logically sound!”

“No, it isn’t,” Deuce’s voice shook with suppressed laughter, “that’s an old wives’ tale, you dumbass.”

Ace gave him a half-hearted kick under the desk, but it only made Deuce snort. “It didn’t work, anyway.”

“You don’t say.”

“And _then_  Thatch said that buttermilk might work—”

“Oh no—”

“—so we slapped that on, and nothing happened again.” Ace sounded disappointed, and Deuce had to hand it to the chef for going along with Ace’s nonsense so readily.

“Are you sure Thatch wasn’t just getting a kick out of slathering different things on your face?” Deuce asked. “What else did he try? Sour cream? Honey?” Ace’s expression told him that yes, they had tried both, and Deuce had to really work at not outright laughing at his friend. “Things like that aren’t going to work, Ace. They might fade the freckles a bit if you’re lucky, but they’ll soon come back as dark as they usually are.” He reached out to Ace, cupping his cheek in his hand and running a thumb gently over the pattern of freckles there. Ace didn’t move, but his frown softened a little at the contact. “They don’t need curing or destroying. They help make you unique. The men only tease you about them because they don’t know how else to process finding their crewmate adorable.”

Ace spluttered and pulled away from Deuce’s touch. “I’m not _adorable_ ,” he spat.

“No, you’re right,” Deuce heaved a sigh, “you’re a fuckin’ nightmare. Anyway, the only thing that’d really work is laser surgery, which I can’t help you with,” Deuce added quickly as Ace perked up, looking hopeful, “because we don’t have that kind of equipment on board.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, Deuce watching Ace closely as his former captain thought hard.

“Ugh, I’m so stupid,” Ace said after a while, smacking his forehead with his palm, “I shouldn’t have come to you at all.”

“Wow, thanks,” Deuce said sarcastically.

“I shoulda gone straight to Marco - he’ll be able to just heal them away.”

“Wait, Ace, no he won’t,” Deuce sighed as Ace stood up with a clatter of his chair, “he can’t heal something that isn’t damaged, he won’t be able to do anything either.”

But Ace wasn’t listening. He waved goodbye to Deuce as he left the doctor’s little office off the side of one of the infirmaries, hurrying away to ask the impossible of his partner.

 

* * *

 

“He was right, I can’t heal them.”

Ace flopped down beside Marco on deck with an irritated sigh, leaning heavily against his arm. “Can’t you at least try?” he asked hopefully, his faint optimism quelled by Marco shaking his head.

“Nothing would happen, trust me,” the blond said, shifting to wrap his arm around Ace’s waist in a hug, “Deuce was right; they’re not damage to your skin, so they aren’t something that needs to be treated. Sorry, Ace. And besides,” he leaned in closer to peck a kiss to Ace’s cheek, “even if I could, I wouldn’t. I love your freckles.”

“Now that’s just selfish,” Ace mumbled, laying his head against Marco’s shoulder.

“I _am_  selfish when it comes to you,” Marco grinned lazily, “haven’t you noticed?”

A few from his division were drinking on deck in front of where he and Marco sat up on the steps leading down to the huge expanse of flooring, apparently already on the booze despite the early afternoon not holding any reason to encourage day drinking. Pops sat in his chair as usual a little way away from them, absolutely not sneaking sake while his nurses’ backs were turned.

“I’m surprised they’re something that you’d want to get rid of,” Marco said unprompted, causing Ace to grunt a questioning noise in response, “if it were me, I’d wear them with pride.”

“You’re welcome to them,” Ace grumbled, but then he sat upright, belatedly taking in the meaning of Marco’s words. “Wait, why would I be proud of them?”

Marco smoothed the hand at his waist up along his spine, making Ace shiver with the motion. “Why?” he repeated, and when Ace nodded encouragingly, he continued, “you mean you don’t know?”

“Don’t know what?”

The hand at his bare back didn’t stop, running up and down the length of his spine in an almost soothing fashion as if trying to calm a child.

“I’m surprised your grandfather never told you,” Marco admitted, “or showed you a photo or anything.”

“Of what?” Ace pressed, but the mention of Garp suddenly made him feel nervous. He didn’t want to learn anything new about Roger - but wait, Roger hadn’t had freckles, Ace had seen his wanted poster plenty of times in his life to know that much.

“Of Rouge,” Marco said gently, “of your mother. You’ve inherited her freckles, Ace.”

Emotion that was ill-defined and unbidden swelled in Ace’s chest at Marco’s words, his breath catching in his throat. He felt immediately softer, somehow, like every negative feeling held within him had been flushed away by this knowledge. They were _hers_ , proof that her DNA, her life, lived on in him, outwardly broadcasting who he truly belonged to. He was not Roger’s, he was _hers_ , he was Rouge’s son in both name and in the flesh, had always been, had always carried her mark on his skin without him even realising it.

“I had no idea,” he said quietly, slumping back against Marco, “no one ever told me.”

“I thought you knew,” Marco admitted, the hand at Ace’s back travelling up into his hair to pet him lovingly, carding through the thick strands, “otherwise I would have said something months ago. They’re just like hers. She hated it when people called hers cute, too.”

“You knew her?” Ace asked.

“Knew the Pirate King’s secret-but-not-so-secret love of his life?” Marco gave a small, genuine laugh. “Of course I knew her. All the big names back then did. Pops told her she had terrible taste in men and asked her to consider ditching Roger for him once.”

Ace laughed as well, but to his surprise he felt sad all of a sudden. Really, really miserable, yet curiously elated as well to hear something so wonderful as a story of Rouge where she lived. Where she had actually existed in the lives of people that Ace now knew himself, giving him a link to her that transcended time, one that he hadn’t fully considered before.

“And what did she say to that?” Ace asked, wiping at his eyes to stop the tears falling that had began to form there.

Marco noticed, of course. He kissed the top of Ace’s head through his hair loudly, earning a muffled snort from the young man, but didn’t draw any further focus to what Ace was hastily trying to stop.

“She told him to go fuck himself,” Marco’s voice trembled with laughter at the memory of it, “oh yeah, she was fiery, Rouge was. Totally held her own against whoever Roger introduced her to. Virtually no one else could have got away with saying something like that to Pops.”

“She sounds…” Ace couldn’t quite finish the sentence he started, fearing he would be wrong and somehow dishonor Rouge’s memory.

“She was just like you,” Marco finished for him instead.

And the tears fell for real this time.

Ace never mentioned getting rid of his freckles again, nor did he ever express dislike for them. He wore them with pride, as Marco had suggested, and happily thanked anyone who brought focus to them.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hc that Ace and Deuce have the kind of relationship where they are very comfortable with insulting one another and being quite dry in their humour, but if anyone else were to try and talk shit about them in front of the other... it would not end well. I also assume that Deuce was in the first division and trained under Marco.
> 
> Btw, for you lovelies who keep getting cock-blocked by me here, I did a [PWP for Marco's birthday](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20905979) yesterday as a way of an apology... and it didn't even get posted here ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ sorry for everything.
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](https://aishitekuretearigatou.tumblr.com/) if you want to come say hi!
> 
> Comments and kudos let me know if I'm doing something right, and I always love your feedback!


	32. Misunderstanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by justaguest yet again! Jealous Marco is too good to pass up on, and it lets me write about Ace and Deuce's wonderful relationship again which is always a blessing.

The new boys were strange and a little bit creepy, in a way. All of the Spade pirates were nice enough and integrated well reasonably quickly once the decision was made that they’d assimilate, but _those two_  with the matching names and the matching withering looks they liked to shoot at Marco bothered him.

Not because of the looks - he could tolerate those. The younger ones always did seem to think that they alone knew how to be funny or that the older generation had grown up devoid of their own jokes and the growing pains of learning how to be an adult, after all.

Fire Boy and Doctor Boy, as Marco privately called them in his attempt to mentally distance himself from his dilemma, got on really well.Really, _really_ well. And it bothered him greatly.

Ace - Fire Boy - caught Marco’s attention as soon as he saw him in the flesh on that island, worn down by Jinbe and then later knocked out cold by Pops. Strong, mouth-wateringly attractive, and clearly powerful, Ace’s ability to command his fire wrung something feral out of the phoenix. It called to him, made him yearn for Ace, made him seek him out when he wasn’t under Thatch’s almost parental supervision and just _talk_ to the boy. Marco indulged in his instinct to bask in that fire, sparring with Ace whenever he could and deliberately letting the guy land fiery punches on him. The phoenix part of him crooned, and it _wanted_ , and Marco went right along with it.

He had been convinced that it was a sure thing that Ace liked him right back. The kid was confident, bold, and forthcoming once he calmed down enough to have a normal conversation with Marco. He never hid the fact that he was checking Marco out, gaze lingering on his firm chest, sliding down to rest appreciatively on his ass, wandering over his sash-covered pelvis…

So then _why_ did Ace behave as he did with Deuce? Did Doctor Boy know that Ace clearly wanted something more than a brotherly bond with Marco? Marco reasoned that he couldn’t know, because nothing changed in their odd relationship each time Marco saw them together, which seemed to be _all the goddamn time_.

Deuce did not leave Ace’s side. It was so bad that it gave Marco second-hand embarrassment, for crying out loud.

They ate together at every meal unless one was off the ship, Deuce taking care to finish up whatever he was doing in the medical bay when Ace stopped by to collect him, or Ace dashing off in delight when Deuce showed his face, glad for an excuse to ditch his paperwork. Deuce caught Ace on every occasion his narcolepsy kicked in, preventing him from slamming face first into his dinner each time.

They showered together - Marco knew this was a frequent occurrence because he was not the only one to have remarked on it during drinking sessions on deck - Ace choosing to join Deuce in the first division’s communal shower room instead of keeping to himself in the commander’s bathroom. Eye witnesses reported that Deuce would sit Ace down and wash his hair for him, scolding him like a child for going too many days without doing it himself while Ace just grinned, pleased.

Hell, Marco was fairly certain they _slept_  together too - no, not like _that,_ although, again, he could be wrong - as he regularly heard two voices through the wall that his room shared with Ace’s well into the night, followed by two sets of gentle snores.

They teased, and they touched, and they huddled too closely together on deck in the evenings. Ace had a habit of leaning into Deuce’s arm, Marco noticed, and Deuce seemed to be a bit too free with casual touches to Ace’s hands, knees, arms - you name it, Deuce had his fingers all over it.

And boy, were they ever _sarcastic_ with each other. Only Marco and Thatch’s own relationship could begin to compare with how _dry_ the two were together, bordering on mean and regularly tipping into so outright rude that many in their company couldn’t tell if they actually liked each other or hated each other… until they got used to it, that is.

It was driving him crazy, not knowing for certain what they were to one another. Well, no, there was one thing he knew about how Deuce regarded Ace, at least. Marco would never forget the moment he had watched with surprise as Deuce had snapped at Ace for a teasing comment he made, only to then lean in and hiss “behave yourself, _captain_ ” into Ace’s ear. Ace had shuddered, gone red, and smiled slyly at Deuce.

What was that? What _was_ that? Captain roleplay? Something left over from when they were captain and first mate? Aside from concerning Marco it left him feeling affronted, feathers ruffled; they had both accepted Pops as their captain, had they not?

Cheeky little brats.

It made working with Deuce really difficult - Marco was not so proud that he couldn’t admit that. Deuce, who had described himself as a failed doctor on joining the crew ahead of Ace, had been taken under Marco’s wing without a second thought. Marco had trained him, guided him, nurtured his obvious intelligence and abilities that had been stamped down in his earlier years. Deuce was no prodigy or genius beyond measure, but he had a good work ethic and desire to learn, which, in Marco’s opinion, were far more valuable than being a gifted brat.

But after initially enjoying the time he and Deuce had spent crowded around aged textbooks and going through stacks of notes that he himself had written as a teenager, Marco now couldn’t help but look at the younger doctor differently. And not in a good way.

And that was when he slipped up, right in the middle of drinking with the two in question, irritated and on edge from having watched Ace practically cling to Deuce like a fucking limpet for the last 20 minutes. Ace had finally settled into a pose that his feline friend Kotatsu would be proud of, his head in Deuce’s lap as his ex first mate fed him popcorn from the bowl that was doing the rounds. Even Thatch was giving them funny looks, raising an eyebrow at Marco in question.

“So how long have you and Ace been a thing?” Marco asked, prompted by the way Deuce had launched into a fucking monologue about how funny he thought Ace was. When Deuce only looked at him enquiringly, Marco realised that perhaps asking him outright had been a really stupid thing to do.

“What do you mean?” Deuce, ever calm and respectful around his mentor, so unlike how he could fly into a rage at Ace, asked politely.

Marco struggled to stop himself from saying the word _fucking_. “Did you get together when you were in the Spades, or has it been since you joined here?”

“Get together…?”

_Shit_ , the reality dawned on Marco as Deuce’s confusion unfogged on his own features, catching up with what Marco was asking. Maybe they really _were_ just overly affectionate and nothing more?

Ace sat up and settled his chin on Deuce’s shoulder, frowning at Marco. “What makes you think we’re together?” he asked defensively, almost cheek to cheek with Deuce. Deuce nodded, frowning.

A muscle in Marco’s jaw twitched, something that was rare for him outside of Thatch’s nonsense driving him mad. _Are these two for real?_

“He wants to know how long you’ve been fucking,” Thatch joined in, looking far too amused for Marco’s liking.

Ace and Deuce just looked at each other blankly before Deuce said, “fucking what?” There was no way that wasn’t deliberate, Marco decided, absolutely no way that they weren’t messing with him now, because no one in this crew was that numbly oblivious, surely.

“Each other,” Marco said gruffly.

And then Deuce laughed.

“Ah, that’s a good one,” he said, slapping Marco genially on the arm, his movement jolting Ace enough to make him sit up, “me and Ace going at it. Very funny, Commander.”

“What’s funny about that?” Ace challenged, nudging Deuce.

“What, aside from the fact that we aren’t?”

Ace huffed. “We could be.”

“Well, sure, in the same sense that anyone could be fucking anyone else, I guess…” Deuce raised an eyebrow as Ace looked genuinely offended.

“Am I not good enough for you or something?” he asked, and Deuce laughed again, eyes squinting shut and white teeth showing.

Marco honestly couldn’t believe he had been wrong, so completely wrong, reading what he had thought to be glaringly obvious signals and body language that the two of them were not only in a relationship, but a very secure one at that (skirting around the hints that Ace kept dropping about being interested in Marco, of course). Yet here they were, having the most ridiculous argument ever about whether Ace reached Deuce’s personal standards or not, taking great offence at Deuce’s continued laughter at his expense.

“You’re plenty good enough, you complete fool,” Deuce wiped at his watering eyes, “I just don’t see you like that. Don’t look so pissed off, you don’t like me in that way either.”

Ace huffed at him, settling his chin back onto Deuce’s shoulder and cuddling, yes _cuddling_ , up to him, arms wrapped around his waist, completely at odds with his snappy retort of, “that you know of.” Maybe they _were_ just freakishly good friends, loving each other entirely without being _in_  love with each other.

“Well, do you?” Deuce asked, looking at the top of Ace’s mess of hair.

“ _No_.”

Even Thatch had started laughing now, Ace’s pout and indignant tone too much for him.

“So there you have it, Marco,” Thatch grinned, brandishing his tankard at his best friend, “Ace is all yours, perfectly available for fucking and courting and whatever else you wanna do to the poor lad.”

Ace and Deuce shut up in unison, bickering abandoned, staring wide-eyed at Marco as he choked into his own drink.

But when Ace’s expression slid into something far more suggestive and downright seductive, Marco couldn’t help but secretly be glad for Thatch’s bluntness. Thank fuck for best friends.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working hard on [How To Save A Life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20834732/chapters/49527944/) but took a little break to write this ♥ it's heavy going, but I'm seriously enjoying writing it. [Arrhythmia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19420813) definitely hasn't been forgotten, just planning out the end of the next chapter at the moment!
> 
> Updates and progress on the longer fics may be slow for the next two weeks as I'm off to the seaside for my honeymoon, but my laptop is going with me so fingers crossed!!
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](https://aishitekuretearigatou.tumblr.com/) if you want to come say hi!
> 
> Comments and kudos let me know if I'm doing something right, and I always love your feedback!


	33. Burn

“Ace?” Thatch asked, tone light and airy and pleasant as can be as he leaned in closer to his younger friend, “can I ask you something?”

Ace gulped down the last of the melon he’d been steadily working his way through, having paid no attention whatsoever to Thatch’s suggestions that perhaps he would like to save some of his snack for later.

“Sure,” he said cheerfully, spitting a seed into his hand and flicking it at someone from the second division who happened to be passing by, “what’s up?”

“Well,” Thatch said, keeping his tone neutral, doing his utmost best not to give away anything, “you know how everyone’s unique? As in, all of our bodies are a little bit different, how some people can, say, for example, grow great big beards and then others, like Marco, can’t ever hope to grow hair on that big bald head of his? Other than that stupid tuft he has.”

“Thanks, Thatch,” Marco called from a few meters away, raising his tankard in mock appreciation for his friend’s call-out.

“Yeah, I guess,” Ace replied, obviously bemused yet curious as to where today’s nonsense from Thatch was going, “like how some people burn really easily in the sun and others don’t?”

That wasn’t what he was going for at all, but Thatch nodded. “So you get it?”

“Yeah, totally. Why?”

“Well,” Thatch stroked at his bearded chin, trying to stop the grin that was slowly growing across his lips, “now, bearing in mind there’s nothing wrong with being different to others - again, think of Marco’s baldness as an example and how we _totally_ don’t tease him for it—”

“Except we do, because I do it myself,” Ace interjected, waving at Marco when he raised an eyebrow at the pair.

“Well, yes, maybe that wasn’t a good example after all,” Thatch frowned. “Okay, look, the point I’m trying to make is that no one’s gonna tease you about something you can’t change, right? So if there’s anything you wanna offload to your old pal Thatchie, then I’m all ears.”

Ace just stared blankly at him, concern for Thatch’s wellbeing pointedly obvious on his freckled features. Thatch tried his hardest to keep a straight face, but it was becoming harder by the second.

“Uh,” Ace broke the silence, “thanks, I guess, but there’s nothing I can think of to, um, offload? Was that the word? Yeah, nah, I’m fine. Thanks, though. You wanna help me rustle up a game of strip poker with the twelfth division? I think it’s time we got Haruta back for cleaning us out in our last game.”

Ah, Ace had no idea what Thatch was trying to get at, clearly. Thatch heaved a dramatic sigh and clapped Ace on his bare back, adopting what he hoped to be a fatherly expression of concern.

“Ace, my boy,” Thatch said, “I’ll just cut straight to the point, shall I? I, and just about everyone else on board, really want to know why you don’t seem to have a single strand of hair on your Greek God of a body.”

It was true - other than his mop of fluffy, unruly hair on his head, his dark eyebrows and lashes, Ace sported absolutely no hair anywhere else.

It hadn’t been all that apparent at first - plenty of crew members had sparse or light-colored hair that went virtually unnoticed on their legs and chest. While Thatch himself was proud of his Chest Carpet, as he affectionately called it, others, such as Haruta, had very little in the way of body hair and nothing was thought of it. As Thatch had said, they were all different, right down to hair follicle density, apparently.

But Ace had _nothing_. Not even pubic hair, those among the commanders had confirmed when curiosity got the better of them. Thatch, Haruta, Izou and Rakuyou had had a hell of a time explaining to Ace just why he had caught them full on staring at his crotch during shower time, inventing a ridiculous story about hearing a story that he was hung like a horse and wanting to confirm it for themselves. Izou had pointed out afterwards that they could have retained their dignity far more easily if they had just come clean at that point.

Ace had no arm hair, chest hair, leg hair, back hair… nothing. He was as smooth as Izou’s calves, but Ace didn’t seem to shave or wax like Izou did. He didn’t own any razors as far as the others could tell - Thatch and Haruta had searched his room one morning when Ace had dashed off at the chance to show off his fire power, sinking a ship full of bounty hunters who were so laughably out of their depth the Whitebeards had taken pity on them and escorted them back to land.

The guy didn’t seem capable of growing a beard or moustache either, although most assumed he deliberately kept his face smooth in his attempt to not resemble Roger as much as possible.

And it bothered Thatch immensely, wanting to know Ace’s secret. Was it a medical condition? Marco had started droning on about patient confidentiality when Thatch had asked him if he’d ever treated Ace for anything outside of narcolepsy, and his old first mate had said the same. Thatch had expected Deuce to be a wealth of information about Ace, but the writer hadn’t divulged squat.

So, after losing a bet with Haruta, Thatch had been given the pleasure of just asking Ace outright, something that he really should have done in the beginning - he could have avoided starting the rumour that he was obsessed with Ace’s body that way, after all.

But whatever Thatch had been expecting, it wasn’t what came out of Ace’s mouth.

“Oh, that?” Ace said with a laugh. “I just burn it off.”

Thatch choked on his own saliva and coughed violently, earning a thump to his back from Ace before he could respond.

“You burn your body hair off?” Thatch wheezed. “You mean you grow it normally and then just - _whoosh_ \- its all gone?”

Ace shrugged. “Kinda, yeah.”

Thatch barked a laugh, causing Marco to look over at them again, eyebrow raised.

“Marco!” Thatch called, waving his hand frantically to try and summon his friend, “c’mere, I gotta tell you something!” He leaned closer to Ace and muttered, “wait, _can_ I tell Marco?”

“If you like,” Ace said, and the young man clearly couldn’t understand why Thatch was finding this so funny, “but he already knows.”

“He _knows?!”_

“Who knows what?” Marco asked, resting his back against the railing beside Thatch.

“You!” Thatch cried dramatically, pointing a finger in accusation at Marco’s face, “you know that Ace burns off his body hair?” When Marco just shrugged, Thatch whined. “And you didn’t tell me? You can’t argue that _that_ comes under patient confidentiality, Marco, c’mon, no one’s falling for that.”

“It’s none of my business who does what with their own bodies,” Marco said somewhat loftily, “I’m not a gossip like you.”

But Thatch just scoffed.

“You told everyone when I tried to fire a grape out of my belly button!”

Ace grimaced. “Ew, dude, did you really?”

Apparently _not_ everyone. Thatch groaned.

“But why, Ace?” Thatch asked, turning the attention back to their youngest friend, “do you hate body hair or something? Is that why you won’t touch the Carpet?”

Ace laughed, pushing Thatch away lightly when he leaned in and pretended to yank open his shirt. “Nah, I don’t hate it or anything. It’s more like…” He thought for a moment, then said, “you know when you’re in the shower and you sorta get distracted and notice things you wouldn’t normally care about? Like how Marco spends ages examining his nails sometimes.”

Thatch’s head whipped round at Marco so fast he almost gave himself whiplash. “Nails, Marco?”

Marco didn’t look fazed. “They grow really quickly. It’s annoying,” he said calmly.

“Well one day when I first got my powers I burned it all off out of boredom,” Ace said. “It’s not that interesting.”

“Dude, it’s _really_ interesting,” Thatch corrected, “that was at least two years ago. And that means—!” he snapped his fingers in realisation, “Deuce _does_ know!”

“Yeah, he knows. I did it to him, too, although he wasn’t happy about it.”

The mental image was too much for Thatch, snorting so hard his beer came out of his nose.

“I’ve got to tell Haruta about this,” Thatch gasped, handing his tankard to Ace and scrubbing at his dripping nose, “he thinks you have some kind of alopecia; he’s gonna be so pissed off, he was _so_ sure he was right.”

And Thatch hurried away, leaving Ace looking bewildered.

Much to Thatch’s dismay, though, Ace didn’t seem to particularly care when, by the next morning, literally everyone in the crew knew, including Pops.

“Makes me more aerodynamic,” Ace grinned over breakfast, shoving far too much bacon into his mouth as several of his division sat listening to him, completely absorbed, “honestly, it really does, like a swimmer or something. You guys should try it.”

And somehow that was all it took for the entirety of the second division to be convinced - including Hendry, whose hairy arms were only rivalled by the fifteenth division’s commander Fossa’s - and for them to all become devoid of body hair too. And they _loved_ it, laughing at each other gleefully, testing if it really did help them swim faster.

Thatch frowned as he watched several of the second division running down the starboard side of the ship just before lunch, yelling and hooting that _I’m running faster! I swear on me mother, lads!_ and other such nonsense with Ace leading and encouraging them, of course.

“And people wonder why we have a reputation for being a mental crew,” Thatch grumbled, chin in palm, “couldn’t have anything to do with the fact that this is pretty normal by our standards, could it?”

Marco just chuckled and settled down next to Thatch, enjoying the hilarity that was unfolding. “At least they’re happy,” he said.

There was never any doubt that the second division were happy. They had never had a dull day since Ace had joined.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of all the things I could have written about for this prompt, I came up with this. What even is life. I must admit, though, that Whitebeard pirate shenanigans and daily life nonsense are my stress relief and a welcome break from writing the bigger fics.
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](https://aishitekuretearigatou.tumblr.com/) if you want to come say hi!
> 
> Comments and kudos let me know if I'm doing something right, and I always love your feedback!


	34. Cornered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-graphic blood and murder, in case anyone needs it. This is a chapter entirely about Haruta and Thatch.

“You killed him.”

Haruta looked up at the man with the chestnut hair, a tall figure made taller still by Haruta’s position on the floor, curled up in a ball. With a flick of his wrist the man rid his blade of the blood that dripped from it, tucking it back into its sheath at his hip.

“I did,” he said calmly. “It was either I kill him, or he kills you, kid. He knew you were the rat, after all. You need a hand up?”

Haruta cringed away from the open palm offered to him, trembling. That hand was responsible for his fellow guard’s death. That hand, now proffered in a gesture of kindness, had taken the life of another.

The room was rife with noise; people yelling, swords clashing, the tell-tale _thud_  of a blade missing its target and hitting wood instead. It wasn’t supposed to go like this, Haruta reminded himself, his betrayal, his turning against the family, was not supposed to result in anyone’s _death_.

“You’re meant to be the good guys,” Haruta said weakly, shrinking away further from the pompadoured man, “that’s why I trusted you. That’s why I told you what this family were hiding in their mansion.”

“Good guys?” The man looked amused, a grin splitting his features, and for the briefest of seconds he looked almost deranged from Haruta’s angle, as if he were on a high from the act of stabbing the man who now lay dead at his feet through the heart. “We’re pirates, kid. We’re neither good or bad. We act according to our own morals.”

“And your morals dictate you kill in cold blood?!” Haruta shouted, incredulous, his voice still shaky and high pitched.

The pirate paused to assess the situation of the fight around them, attention drawn by the sound of one of his men crying out in pain. Haruta seized his moment - he snatched up his own rapier and lunged, intent on running, intent on getting away and hiding, starting a new life, because this was _his_ fault, he had judged poorly and now the family who had protected him, given him a job and a life, were paying for it. He hadn’t _meant_  for anyone to die, to get hurt; Haruta hadn’t known that the men he had got along so well with were capable of murder. Granted, yes, something certainly had had to be done about the testing that was carried out on the kingdom’s orphans in the basement of the mansion. But murder? He couldn’t stomach it.

To Haruta’s revulsion the man stopped his blade with his bare hand, that same hand that had slain his co-worker. Wide, adrenaline-fuelled hazel eyes stared down at Haruta’s terrified blue, an almost manic glint in them. He leaned in, closing the space between them and driving the blade deeper into his palm in the process.

“In this case?” The man said softly, grin lopsided and eyes bright, making the hairs on the back of Haruta’s neck stand on end, “yeah, I’d say a bit of murder is the least we could dish out. Testing chemical weapons on orphans simply because they _won’t be missed?_  You’d have to be deranged to think your little group don’t deserve what they so readily dole out themselves.”

 _He_ looked deranged, blood soaking into his sleeve at his wrist as it was. Haruta tried to pull his rapier back but the man held it fast, that grin never slipping.

“Your hand,” Haruta gasped despite himself, “look at your _hand_ , man!”

But the man didn’t seem to care in the slightest. “You did the right thing by trusting us to act,” he said in a low voice, almost lost under the chaos that reigned around them. “You ever thought about becoming a pirate? We could use a sneaky little brat such as yourself.”

Summoning the last of his courage, Haruta spat on the ground at the man’s feet. “Never,” he rasped, “especially not with _you_  people. I made a mistake, trusting you.” He laughed a mirthless laugh, willing himself to stop shaking. “I bet your name isn’t even Davy, is it?”

“Nope,” the pirate said, and to Haruta’s terror he sounded _cheerful_ , “my name’s Thatch. Shame you don’t want to join us. It’s also a shame you don’t have a say in the matter.” He smiled with all his teeth, and Haruta was certain in that instant that that smile would haunt him for years to come. “Hold still; this will only hurt a bit.”

And pain erupted through Haruta’s skull as he was struck in the temple by Thatch’s free, unbloodied hand. He slumped, his world went black, and Haruta the guard passed out into the arms of the man he would soon be calling his brother.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it was so short - inspiration struck so hard I just had to get this out! Give me a Thatch who is an idiot among his crew but deadly and terrifying in the face of his enemies... just. Yes. I need to write more like this. 
> 
> I'm on an 11 hour flight back home tomorrow (getting up at 2:30 AM to travel for 21 hours straight is not something I am looking forward to) so... fingers crossed I fall asleep on the flight this time.
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](https://aishitekuretearigatou.tumblr.com/) if you want to come say hi!
> 
> Comments and kudos let me know if I'm doing something right, and I always love your feedback!


	35. Personal

No one could really say how it began.

There was a definite beginning – that much was certain. Of course there was. Everything had a beginning; everything had an end.

Perhaps it had started on that night when Ace became the commander of the second division. No one saw him leave the party, yet he definitely hadn’t been there when Jozu had downed an entire barrel of beer in one go.

Perhaps the first time had been when the first and second divisions had fought alongside each other against a particularly vicious marine vice admiral and their subordinates, successfully managing to drive up both Ace and Marco’s bounties for their devastating dual attack on the ship.

Or perhaps, maybe, it had been right from that fateful day when Marco had given Ace a choice. Perhaps, unknown to the rest of the crew, that had been the spark that began it all.

For nowadays, Ace and Marco were never apart during the night. Ace slept in the first division commander’s quarters, curled around Marco like a gigantic cat, practically purring as his hair was petted. During the day they attended to their duties as usual, speaking if they happened across each other, engaging in the usual drunken fanfare that made up most evenings on deck of the Moby Dick… But night-time was reserved for them, and them alone.

It was no secret. Everyone knew that they did it, and after many near misses, they had all learned to leave them well alone – there were only so many times the crew could handle having fire flicked in their direction or the threat of talons hissed at them.

Only their reasons were not sexual, as presumed. No – no matter how many times Thatch pressed his ear to Marco’s door, and despite every _accidental_ barging in of bodies into the bedroom, no one ever managed to catch the two commanders engaged in anything but cuddling. Not once.

Weird.

“You ever heard of two adult men cuddling just for the sake of cuddling?” Thatch asked loudly, kneading the dough he was going to turn into soft pretzels on the worktop – the topic was still fresh, everyone keen to discuss their favorite theories on why the two commanders shared a bed these days. “Other than, say, when blind drunk or actually secretly lusting for each other.”

“Dunno,” another chef from the fourth division, a sandy-haired young man named Eric, shrugged, also working his dough into elasticity, “why don’t you just ask them? Would answer, like, literally everyone’s questions.”

“Maybe they both confessed they have nightmares or something,” Geri, a red-haired chef, piped up, wiping at her forehead and leaving a track of flour there, “and they comfort each other when they wake up.”

Thatch hummed. “While that’s a really cute idea, Marco doesn’t dream. No, seriously,” he added, catching his subordinates’ expressions, “he honestly doesn’t have dreams. Something to do with not needing REM sleep ‘cause his brain just heals away whatever REM’s meant to deal with. Fuck me if I know, I’m not a science nerd.”

“So then why’s he cuddling up with Ace every damn night?” Geri asked. “They really aren’t together – I heard some of Ace’s guys asking him. Flat out denied it, he did. Said he wasn’t interested in guys old enough to be his father.”

Ouch. Regardless of whether they had a thing going or not, that was never going to be easy on Marco’s feelings, Thatch winced.

So the question remained unanswered, a mystery. No one approached them about it, yet equally no one could stop themselves from coming up with weirder and wilder guesses at every opportunity.

Not even Deuce, Ace’s former first mate and current best friend, was of any help.

“Yes, I have noticed, and no, I haven’t asked him,” he sighed irritably when Thatch got him alone one evening, shepherding the younger man off to the village they were anchored near and choosing a warm, homely tavern to while away the night in. “I mean, Ace _does_ like to cuddle when he has a bad dream, I can tell you that much—”

Thatch set down his drink with a thump and leaned in, curious. “Do continue. In detail.”

“He has really bad nightmares,” Deuce elaborated, although he didn’t look thrilled to be pressed on the matter, “and when we were in our old crew, I’d often wake up to find him in my bed with me.”

“ _Did_ you?” Thatch said excitedly, as if he had struck gold.

Deuce huffed. “Yes. In tears. It was heart-breaking. Not the kind of thing you’d gossip freely about, either,” he added warningly, pinning Thatch with a severe look.

“Of course not,” Thatch agreed, genially slapping Deuce on the back, “wouldn’t dare.”

Much to Thatch’s dismay, all leads were soon exhausted – the rest of the former Spade pirates were just as clueless as Deuce, not one of them feeling the need to press their former captain for an explanation.

“Ah, leave them be, dude,” Skull said after a thorough interrogation one afternoon, “either ask them yourself or drop it.”

And the men of the second division were a dead end, too.

“Nothin’ odd about guys being friendly,” one of the men said cheerfully when asked, earning nods from his friends.

True. But there was being friendly, and then there was _this_.

 _This_ being Marco and Ace getting up to leave the card game that Haruta was massacring them all at, both announcing they were going to bed.

 _This_ being how they were both witnessed going into Marco’s room, as usual by now, closing the door behind them and drawing the curtain over the porthole.

Thatch was restless throughout the entire game, struggling with his need to just go and _look_.

His chance came when Izou and Fossa retired to bed, joining them as they rose and then taking a detour to the kitchens, claiming to have forgotten to lock up. He left them with a cheery wave, turning on his heel the moment they were out of sight and doubling back to Marco’s room.

Marco never locked his bedroom door – Thatch had confirmed this many, _many_ times in the years they had been best friends, forever wondering why Marco never _learned_ and started taking measures to protect himself from Thatch’s drunken wanderings. On some level, Thatch wondered if perhaps Marco didn’t hate having him burst in yelling incoherent confessions of adoration as much as he pretended to.

And so with the care and delicacy of someone well trained in the art of assassination as he was, Thatch eased Marco’s bedroom door open just enough to peek around and get a good look at what was happening.

And what met his eyes filled him with a complete sense of wonder and awe.

Fire.

Great plumes of the most vibrant tones of plum, violet, and lilac raged around Ace and the crew’s very own enormous, magnificent phoenix, casting great dancing shadows over the walls, the desk, the floor around the bed. Sparks of ruby, licks of cyan flickered and illuminated the two in the hearth of the raging fire, spun together like molten glass twisted tight. Their flames swallowed one another, converging, mixing, creating the most spectacular of displays and radiating heat of the kind that hit Thatch like he had stepped directly onto the face of the sun. It _burned_ in its intensity, yet nothing other than the two were on fire, the room protected from any damage.

Piercing, sharp blue glinted over Ace’s bare shoulder, formless flames blazing around it, warning him.

Warning him not to come any closer.

A great molten wing made entirely of purple and blue flames hid Ace from view, giving the sense that Thatch had intruded upon something intimate and profoundly _personal_ to them – something he should have never witnessed.

The phoenix and the flame becoming one.

Thatch never mentioned it again.

  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Far more fast-paced than I usually write, but I wanted to exercise my speed muscle! ... or something to that effect.
> 
> I am _so sorry_ for not updating this for a million years! I'm not out of ideas nor am I finished with this nonsense! I spent a ridiculous amount of time on Arrhythmia chapter 7, and I have also been in _The Biggest Deuce Mood Ever_. I just want to write about him so much it's unreal, and I don't want to shove all of that in here (if I can help it)! So enjoy your small doses ;u;
> 
> I have marked the fic as complete but rest assured that there is more to come! Each chapter is complete and finished within this fic, so it makes sense to mark as such. There is more to come (in the shape of egg nonsense next chapter, probably).
> 
> As ever, I'm on [Tumblr](https://aishitekuretearigatou.tumblr.com/) if you want to come say hi!
> 
> Comments and kudos let me know if I'm doing something right, and I really love your feedback!


	36. Indulgent (E-rated)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> E-rated. The most E-rated chapter so far in this collection. Uber E.
> 
> Features Marco/Ace/Deuce because this is an entirely self-indulgent piece that was encouraged into creation by some lovely people on Discord. Thanks for falling into this rareship with me!

“Are you trying to _escape?”_

Nails – too long, too _feral_ – bit into Deuce’s hips as he was yanked back onto that thick cock. A breath was forced from his lungs, his entire body shaking while being split open further, _further_ , tears pricking his eyes at the feeling of his prostate being brutally pounded against.

His hair was fisted at the back of his head, his face shoved down roughly into the sheets as Marco fucked into him, snapping his hips at a brutal, agonising pace that would have displaced Deuce’s center of gravity had it not been for the iron grip the older man kept on his hip. He was bruising – there was no way he wasn’t – but that was the least of his concerns.

“Let him see you,” Marco hissed, slowing suddenly and eliciting a pained, shaky moan, “let him see what you look like when you come on my cock.”

Not enough, not _enough_ — his pace slowed to something falsely gentle, pelvis angling so precisely to drag and rub against and into the spots that made him quiver that Deuce wondered if Marco could _see_ them.

Breath was pulled through clenched teeth, hissing when he was suddenly hauled upright by his hair twisted in Marco’s grip, forcing Deuce up onto his knees, his back slick with the sweat of a long, drawn out session to that navy tattoo. His eyes, free of his mask, locked with Ace’s lidded, aroused pair, and Deuce felt something inside him crack at that look.

“Don’t,” he sobbed, his wrist caught in Marco’s hold and twisted behind his back, pulling his chest open, _exposing him_ more in front of his ex-captain— “don’t let him see—”

“ _You_ asked him here,” the harsh reminder was bitten – literally – into his ear, and Deuce cried out in mingled surprise and pain, “ _you_ begged me to fuck you while he watched.”

“I—” But the protest was lost as Marco bit into his shoulder, giving way to a shapeless cry. Marco squeezed Deuce’s wrist behind his back twice in quick succession, receiving two back in kind – he was ok, this was within his limits, and Marco could keep going.

And go, he did.

“You’re fucking _filthy_ ,” Marco mouthed against the angle of Deuce’s jaw, his free hand leaving his hair and snaking round to encircle his hard, dripping cock, thumbing through the precum; Deuce _whined_ , caught tight between his front and back, not an inch given between the pressure inside him and gripping him. “Don’t deny it. You’re enjoying this _way_ too much. I never had you pinned as being the type to like being watched.”

Ace could see everything; Marco’s hand pumping him in time with his deep thrusts— _so deep, too big, hurts, **hurts** , feelssogoodican’t_— the way he shook, all control lost, simply existing in this moment as Marco’s _sleeve_ to be _used_ —

“Do you want him to join us?”

His legs almost gave way at the thought of it, nerves savaged inside as Marco began to pick up the pace again. Wet, filthy noises pervaded the room from the slick slide of an excessive amount of lube and saliva used in the process of opening him up, coaxing his body to yield and submit as his mind had already done so. And still Ace’s eyes never left his, not even when those tanned, freckled hands palmed at himself through his shorts before unbuckling his belt. Brash. Unashamed.

Deuce could only salivate at the thought of being restrained between them both.

But—

“N-No,” he gasped, hips canting into that firm grip, shoved forward by the ferocity that Marco was fucking him with, “I’m not— he’s too— he’s— _ah, Marco, don’t_ —”

“You hear that?” Marco directed at Ace – Ace, who had pulled his dick free of his shorts, working a fist over himself rapidly, eyes now trained on Marco’s grip pumping away, “your ever-faithful first mate thinks you’re— _ah_ — _too good_ for him.” Full, demanding lips drew Deuce’s into a sloppy kiss, sucking his tongue between lines of teeth that bit down and swallowed his sharp cry. “You tightened up _real nice_ just then, _first mate_. You _like_ that?”

Words were lost to him instantly as he tried to open his mouth to speak— Ace was getting up out of the chair and shoving his shorts down to his ankles, kicking them away with his underwear.

No, no, _no_ — Deuce moaned low when Marco let go of his weeping, flushed cock in favor of grabbing at his hips again, the hold on his wrist abandoned too. His pelvis was angled to tilt up just _so_ , pressing Marco’s shaft against Deuce’s prostate so perfectly he shook, breath strangled in his throat for how _delicious_ it was. He flailed, hands twisting to grab and dig nails into Marco’s biceps for purchase, using the other man to keep himself upright lest he fall and end up pounded into the mattress again. His knees ached, his back screamed with the effort of holding his position, but Marco was relentless, fucking him _so good right there moremoremore please_ —

—And then the bed dipped as Ace joined them, sliding up in a haze of heat to rub slick up against Deuce’s cock, fingers deftly twisting at his nipples, guiding him by the tongue into a fiery kiss.

It was over within seconds, his voice ripped from his throat in a harsh sob of what might have been Ace’s name. Deuce shook violently in Marco’s hold as he came over Ace’s abs, ruining his pristine body with his euphoria. With a weak _squeak_ that he would later deny he felt himself filled with Marco’s seed, roughly fucked into him deep while Marco sighed through his climax.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Ace hissed as Marco pulled out; his come followed, rolling down the insides of Deuce’s thighs as he clenched uselessly around nothing. “Hold his legs up for me, Marco.”

Deuce blinked, willing himself to surface from the lull of his orgasm.

_Hold his…?_

“ _Ace, please_ ,” Deuce moaned, his eyes stinging with tears – Marco complied, sitting down to pull Deuce into his lap. Large, calloused palms slid to tuck into the pits of his knees and spread him up and open, a kiss mouthed to his temple in an attempt to calm him. He was on display, bared and perfectly exposed, presented to his ex-captain like he existed only for _satisfying_. “I’m—” Deuce shuddered; he couldn’t shut his legs, couldn’t _move_ in Marco’s powerful grip, could do nothing other than cling to Ace when he moved into his body and slid up his sticky, wet perineum. “You don’t have to— I’m not—”

Again, that double squeeze at his hip this time, returned enthusiastically to the tattoo on Ace’s back in the form of two pats. He was fine – thoroughly overwhelmed and turned on, but otherwise fine.

The head of Ace’s cock nudged at his hole, breaching him with ease as it sank into Marco’s cum and the remaining lube. The slick slide, the barely-there burn was _heaven_ and his voice came out strangled; Marco’s heartbeat raced in his ear as Deuce turned his face into his neck, a hot, keening cry choked from him once Ace was fully seated inside.

“Shit, you feel incredible,” Ace laughed, ragged, drawing his hips back and causing Deuce’s spine to arch away from Marco’s chest. “Marco’s already fucked you and you’re still this tight, Deuce.”

He could only manage a gasping, strained breath as he was filled to the brim repeatedly, Ace wasting no time in setting a pace that had Deuce’s toes curling. It was too much, _too good,_ overstimulated and over-emotional all wrapped into one— helpless, soft noises were forced out of him continuously, his head lolling back over Marco’s shoulder, nails biting into Ace’s shoulders as he was rocked back into that firm, solid chest. Lips attacked him instantly, Marco’s falling at the corner of his mouth, Ace’s sucking a bruise to the top of his sternum.

“Here,” Marco’s voice rumbled against his lips, “hold your leg.” Deuce complied without question, supporting his right leg up in order for Marco to—

“ _Fuck_ ,” the word left him as a wheeze, hammered out of him by Ace’s pace, “ _Marco_ —”

For Marco’s freed hand closed around Deuce’s erection, never given the chance to go down after round one, remaining straining up against his abdomen. And he _writhed_ , crying with the intensity of it all, of their touches, their care, their acceptance that _this,_ that robbing him of his autonomy, was the single best way to get him to _let go_.

_So good, the best, love them so much my heart hurts_ —

“Such an obscene _first mate_ ,” Ace praised, breathy and deliberate, causing Deuce to spasm in Marco’s lap, around Ace’s cock, “gonna make your captain come in you, huh? You really— really are devoted, aren’t you?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Deuce sobbed – ah, he was crying again – “devoted to you, Captain,” his breath hitched; Ace’s fingers were back at his left nipple, other hand remaining clutched at his hip, flicking, rubbing, drawing a tremulous sigh all the way from the base of his spine, it felt like, “always, would do anything for you, both of you, both— _ah_ —"

He went rigid, the praise too much, the drag of Ace’s cockhead tugging over his prostate _so perfectly,_ working in tandem with Marco’s slide over his sensitive head and sending Deuce over the edge. Every muscle seized, his mouth falling open into a cry of ecstasy, overstimulated and fucked out and _quenched_ of his thirst.

And Deuce blacked out with the force of his second orgasm, going limp against Marco with a content sigh. Right as Ace came with a final snap of his hips.

“Oops,” Ace said as he came down from his high, breath labored and husky from his orgasm, “did he just—?”

“Looks like it,” Marco confirmed, releasing Deuce’s cock and wiping his sticky hand at his waist. He tilted Deuce’s jaw between forefinger and thumb where his head still rested on his shoulder, hair a wild mess – he looked relaxed, completely blissed out. “Never had that happen before.”

“Guess I’m just that good.”

Marco snorted. “Guess you are.”

Together they cleaned up and maneuvered their passed-out boyfriend under the sheets, tucking him in with a tenderness that was completely at odds with the rough love they had just demonstrated. Deuce was completely boneless, a dead weight of satisfied pleasure, yet they moved him with effortless ease.

“I _love_ watching you fuck him,” Ace admitted, settling down at the foot of the bed beside Marco once Deuce was sufficiently taken care of; they wouldn’t leave him, would be right here waiting for him the moment he woke up again, “he makes this face that just gets me—” A pronounced shiver tickled up Ace’s spine, making him sit up a little straighter.

Marco hummed in agreement, knowing full well what Ace meant. With a dip of his head he kissed Ace softly, fingers reaching to card through fluffy black hair. “Are you satisfied with just the one round?”

Gray glittered as Ace’s eyes lit up under the dimmed lighting of the lantern. “No. Are you?”

Marco raised an eyebrow in response before looking over his shoulder at Deuce. “You think he’ll be up for going again when he comes to?”

A mischievous grin split Ace’s features; his freckles seemed to _glow_ with the intensity of it. “Only one way to find out,” he said.

True enough. “Did you know about the _first mate_ thing, by the way?” Ace shook his head, although he looked impressed. “Neither did I. Sure kept that quiet for a long time.” Marco shifted, leaning against Ace slightly. “How long should we give him?”

“Hm. Three minutes?”

Marco grinned at Ace’s impatience. “Deal.”

 

 


	37. Birthday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Now i just wanna write drunk Deuce."  
> "Do it. Write New Years drunk Deuce."  
>   
> And voila, here it is!
> 
> Happy birthday, Ace ♥ everyone loves you more than you'll ever know ♥

The party was in full swing, the deck littered with pirates enjoying the end of year celebrations that doubled up as a covert birthday party for Ace – never fully acknowledged, of course, out of respect for his feelings surrounding Rouge, yet it was impossible to keep the party’s true intention a secret when random members of the crew kept drunkenly grabbing Ace round the neck, yelling, “just pretend like it’s not your birthday, Commander!”

And even more so when his first mate significantly underestimated the potency of the rum he had had shoved into his chest by Thatch, draining the bottle to screeched choruses of, “down in one!”

Encouraged by a cacophony of cheers from the onlooking crew members, Deuce had launched the empty bottle over the side of the Moby Dick, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand with a triumphant grin. The beer and sake he’d been steadily working through beforehand did not take kindly to the sudden addition of the coconut-flavored rum, it appeared, for Deuce became worse for wear within minutes. Gait meandering and grin lopsided, he flopped down to the deck beside Ace to sway alarmingly before slumping back against the railing.

Ace, of course, found it _hilarious_.

“Having a good time?” He grinned at Deuce, earning a vague, lazy smile back in return. Being the responsible twenty-year-old he now was, Ace handed his tankard of beer over to Deuce, who grasped at it like it was a lifeline. “You look like you could use another.”

“Thanks,” Deuce slurred, grin as sloppy as his words, “I _definitely_ do.”

It wasn’t like Deuce to get this drunk. Tipsy, sure. Happy and loose, definitely. But this was a step further than was customary, and Ace was going to make sure he remembered it forever. And, of course, that Deuce did the next morning, too.

“Did you know,” Deuce announced loudly after taking a huge gulp and wiping at his dripping chin again, “that it’s your birthday?”

Ace snorted. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Deuce said happily, “I didn’t get you a gift ‘cause you _hate_ your birthday – oh, but don’t say anything, ‘cause you’re not meant to know I know—” Ace had to bite his lip to stop himself laughing when Deuce pressed a finger to his own, “—but if you want, you can have _this_ instead.”

Ace took the tankard back when Deuce almost threw it over him in his haste. “The beer?” Ace asked, but Deuce shook his head with an exaggerated frown.  With no hint of hesitancy or apparent regard for the copious number of crewmates around them, Deuce began shrugging off his coat with difficulty, positively fighting to get his arms free.

“You can have _me_ ,” Deuce said proudly, gesturing to himself in a broad, sweeping motion once rid of the offending garment, “right here, right now, however you like.”

That was it. That was the line that Ace had to make _sure_ he remembered word for word in the morning so that he could tease Deuce for the rest of the _year_.

“Oh, wow,” Ace grinned, voice cracking with the effort of withholding his laughter, “that’s, uh, really generous, Deuce—”

“What _ever_ you want,” Deuce interrupted loudly, slapping his bare chest with an open palm, eyes unfocused on Ace’s amused expression, “ _anything_. I _love you_ , dude.”

“Okay,” Ace said consolingly, as if he were about to attempt to reason with an emotional toddler and not his inebriated best friend, “how about—how about you just lie down for a minute.” He patted his lap, setting the tankard down by his side and out of Deuce’s fumbling reach. “Here.”

Deuce actually _pouted_. God, that was _rare_. And extremely funny. But then his expression snapped into another wry grin, his head lolling to one side as he gave Ace what he clearly thought to be a knowing look.

“Yeah?” He said, reaching for Ace’s belt buckle and finally making Ace laugh out loud, “sure, I’ll suck your d—”

“Not _that_ ,” Ace said quickly, stifling a giggle and pushing Deuce’s questing hands away hastily right as Thatch, the root cause of Deuce’s intoxication, looked over with interest, “no, just _lie down_ for a while and sober up a bit. That’d make me _really_ happy, I promise.”

With a huge, dramatic sigh, Deuce dropped his forehead to Ace’s shoulder. “You callin’ me drunk?”

“Well, yeah. ‘Cause you are. Lie here with me and then when you’re more sober you can go back to drinking.” Deuce raised his face to glare (as best he could) at Ace, mask slipping up his forehead; Ace slid it back down with a snort. “Birthday boy’s wishes,” he said cheerily, hoping it would work.

It did, and Deuce – with all the grace of a sack of loose potatoes – rolled from Ace’s shoulder to land in a heap in his lap.

His eyes closed and his whole world spinning, Ace assumed, Deuce raised his hand to knock his knuckles lightly against Ace’s chest. “You’re _perfect_ ,” Deuce slurred all of a sudden, patting Ace fondly, “and you better start believin’ it, baby.”

“Thanks, buddy,” Ace said, stroking his fingers through Deuce’s hair once his hand was grabbed and guided there with a demanding grunt, “so are you.”

Deuce sighed heavily, annoyance obvious; Ace raised his eyebrows, enjoying the entertainment. “I _mean_ ,” Deuce stressed as if his intention should have been clear as day, “that I really do love you. Fuck, dude, _everyone_ loves you. You’re a complete idiot.”

Ah, what a perfect way to welcome in his twenties – being insulted.

But before Ace could come back with a snappy, witty retort, Deuce hiccupped and slapped a hand to his mouth, eyes flying open.

“Oh,” he said flatly, voice muffled, “I feel sick.”

The fear of god suddenly instilled in him, Ace bolted up, dragging his useless first mate to his feet too as he began to hiccup in earnest, clutching at Ace’s shoulder for support.

“Over the railing, over the—over _here_ , Deuce, fuck, let go, hold onto the side here—”

Nope, he was never going to let Deuce live this down. Not the drunkenness, nor the sudden voiding of his stomach over the side of the Moby, and certainly not the delighted shout he gave on accepting yet another bottle of alcohol from Thatch when the chef wandered over to investigate – or the way it had turned into a yell of protest when Thatch swooped down on Ace and planted a big, wet kiss on his cheek.

“Love ya lots, Acey-boy,” Thatch grinned, ruffling Ace’s hair affectionately.

Between the laughter at Deuce’s distressed flailings at Thatch, the searing heat of familial fondness glowing at his cheek, and Deuce’s babbled words of love still ringing in his ears, Ace felt that maybe – just maybe – he didn’t hate his birthday quite so much this year.

Maybe.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, I'm on [Tumblr](https://aishitekuretearigatou.tumblr.com/) if you want to come say hi!
> 
> Comments and kudos let me know if I'm doing something right, and I really love your feedback!


	38. Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this was actually a Tumblr prompt and should thus go in the specific Tumblr prompt collection, I actually feel it fits in here just as well, so here we go. Sorry for the... incredible lack of updates recently. Life is a slog and writing suddenly became incredibly hard out of nowhere, but I'm clawing my way back now (I think). 
> 
> MarcoAce (although only suggested at) this time ♥

It wasn’t like it came as a surprise, really. Not entirely. While it had been obvious that it was going to hit him one day, viewed from afar like a fated individual staring down an oncoming tsunami yet turning their back on it in a perverse game of _out of sight, out of mind,_ Ace had simply chosen to _ignore_ that impending doom.

Ignore, deny, bury his head in the sand – and perhaps by doing so, on some tiny plane of disbelief and refusal to face the truth, he could avoid what was always going to come for him.

Yet it still caught him like a punch to the gut when it _did_ happen, that moment when he looked up from tying his laces to regard Marco standing in the doorway of his room, a calm, solitary presence backlit by the mid-morning sun that framed him in gold.

“Can we,” Marco said gently, inclining his head to the side, “talk for a moment?”

He could only nod; only abandon his boots again to bring his knees to his chin, a guarded pose that sought to protect, to ward off the oncoming pain.

Marco knew. That was the only explanation for this. Shutting them away in Ace’s room, refusing to meet his eyes as he crossed one leg over the other on taking a seat at the desk chair, folding his arms too. His body language mirrored Ace’s, closing up and defending – from what, Ace had no idea – in the presence of one so impossibly vile and cursed.

“Pops asked if he could speak to me this morning,” Marco began without preamble, cutting straight to the chase and leaving Ace cold with dread. There never were any niceties to Marco, that was sort of his _thing_ and sort of what Ace naturally liked in a person. No dressing up the inevitable; keeping things short and sweet and to the point, feelings spared where possible and left unattended where deemed to be of little importance. Not that Marco often _did_ shirk the emotional wellbeing of his brothers, but…

“Did he?” Ace barely offered, refusing to help lead this conversation down the path that he knew they were to follow so early into the game. The longer he stalled, the longer he and Marco could remain friends. Each second was now precious; each moment something holy before they collapsed into ruins and he lost another to the truth. “That’s pretty normal, right? I spoke to Thatch this morning myself. Went down to the kitchens to help him make pastries.”

_To keep myself well out of your way for as long as possible._

“I know,” Marco said, and when Ace finally managed to meet his eyes, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end at once. That gaze – was it cold? It certainly made Ace _feel_ cold, in any case. Damn Marco for always being passive and unreadable right when Ace could damn well do with visual cues. “Thatch helpfully told me that you’d left for a shower a while ago, so I came to find you here.”

_Yeah_ , Ace wanted to scoff, settling for resting his chin on his knees instead, arms wrapped securely around his legs, _no doubt helped along by your incredible observation haki._

He would have waited, Ace well knew, until he was certain that Ace was alone and out of the communal shower room. Away from any spectators, any help that might try to intervene when it all went to shit and Ace was mauled, gouged, ripped limb from limb like he so deserved to be. Marco wouldn’t want to bring harm to the others if possible, of course. No – his target, as he was demonstrating so obviously by _cornering_ him like this, was Ace, and Ace alone. No one else had to get involved – no one else had to witness their beloved first mate, their respectable head doctor, exact his hatred for Ace’s blood.

And, Ace figured with a deep inhale pulled into lungs via nose, he would let him get one hit in. Punch, kick – it didn’t matter. Ace would give him just the one before defending himself and fighting back. His life may well be worthless – and it _was,_ no matter how much Luffy and Sabo had insisted that he was wrong, and regardless of how often Deuce would protest that he wasn’t to be blamed for his father’s life… Even Whitebeard’s – Pops’ – strangely abstract words of comfort had been shed like water from a duck’s back the moment Ace had left his room, the elation of revealing his darkest secret to meet with acceptance being snuffed out, strangled, left to rot.

As it should.

“Ace,” Marco said levelly, looking to all the world like he was relaxed and at ease and very much not about to make a serious attempt at dismembering his fellow crewmate, the _bastard_ , “I know about Roger.”

And there it was, the wound exposed following the tearing off of the band-aid in a single swift motion.

Flinching like he had been slapped, Ace turned his face to the side. Marco didn’t move. Right, so that was how he was going to play it: wait for the moment when Ace’s guard relaxed enough to ensure the first hit landed. Typical Marco. Typical, _brilliant_ Marco.

He had wanted Marco to know about Roger. This grand reveal from Pops was not an act of betrayal, was not discussed on a sudden whim, nor was it indicative of neglect for Ace’s wellbeing. This had been planned, and it had been talked through, and it had been Whitebeard who had suggested that perhaps they don’t let Marco in on this particular tale.

_He is a good man,_ Pops had growled into his enormous cup of sake, surveying Ace over the rim, _and I do not believe that he would view you any less favorably if he were to know. Marco thinks a lot of you, son, and I don’t see that changing._ A frown had pulled his brows down to furrow deep, leaning in almost conspiratorially and lowering his usually huge, booming voice. _However, perhaps sharing this fact with him is not such a good idea._

_Why not?_ Ace had asked, taken aback, having been thoroughly certain that Pops would encourage and applaud his decision to open up a little.

_Because_ you _may come to regard_ him _differently,_ had been the kind response, the gentle smile behind the curved moustache, _and I know you value your friendship with him._

 How absurd. Ace had laughed at this, slapping at Whitebeard’s knee. _Deuce knows_ , he had pointed out, _and we’re just fine_.

_And how long did it take you to feel at ease with him? I mean completely and utterly at peace in his presence without worrying whether he was privately judging you._ Ace hadn’t answered; he hadn’t needed to. _I will tell Marco if you still want me to tomorrow. At least sleep on it, son._

Well, now Marco knew, and now Marco wanted to talk about it. What was there to say? What could Ace possibly add to the knowledge that _yeah, sorry, my father’s Roger, surprise_ other than further reasons for Marco to hate him?

But the half-expected attack didn’t come. And continued to not come the longer Ace stared at the floor, straining his ears to listen for that tell-tale _flap_ of wings beating, or the scrape of talons transforming to wood.

A glance back to the older man was chanced; a glance that transformed into a stare on contact, holding and questioning the warmth with which Marco regarded him. Warmth that transported itself directly into Ace’s cheeks, into his chest, and ignited a less than favorable response.

“What?” He snapped, immediately defensive to hide, to redirect. “Something funny about that?”

The answer didn’t come at once; instead Marco leaned back on his chair, its front feet lifting from the floor to precariously balance on the rear pair. With a tilt of his chin down to better smile at Ace, Marco corrected, “not funny, no. It explains a lot, though. And,” his eyes seemed to twinkle, crinkling at the edges with his grin, “it _does_ make you a hell of a lot more interesting.”

Where there had been trepidation and fear now raged anger. Bitter, violent anger that flared into life along his shoulders and at his fingertips, sparking bright and bold before smouldering back down to nothing.

“ _Interesting?”_ Ace spat, uncurling to drop his feet to the floor, to lean forward with palms pressed to knees, a snarl tugging at his lip, “you think this is _interesting?_ You think that me being that man’s flesh and blood is—” Marco’s huff of laughter had Ace pulling up short and _furious._ This had been a mistake after all, and honestly, all things considered, this response was far worse than any amount of violence and hatred could have been.

“Yes, interesting,” Marco continued to smile that awful, accepting smile, as if Ace had merely informed him that today was a leave day and perhaps maybe they could go shopping in a nearby town or something. “I knew Roger, and I know you. Now that Pops has filled me in, I’ve been thinking about how you’re very similar to him in some of your mannerisms and morals—” Ace scoffed a derisive sound, rolling his eyes, “—and how,” Marco pressed on loudly over the top of the ugly sound, “you’re nothing like him at all in other ways. It’s fascinating.”

“How could I be anything like him as a person?” Ace snapped, “I didn’t know him. I don’t know anything about him other than—” He drew up short, biting his tongue to prevent the words _other than all of the bad things, the sad things, the things that made me hate him with everything I have_.

“Precisely.” Marco leaned forwards also, mirroring Ace’s stance yet countering his frown with a beaming smile. “And that’s what I find interesting.”

“Just that?” The words left him before he could stop them, rolling from his tongue to challenge something that he didn’t think he wanted to know in the first place. “That’s the only thing you find interesting about all of this? Not the fact that Roger even _had_ a son in the first place, or…?”

_The fact that it had to be me?_

When it came down to the moment – when all was said and done and the truth was there in the open, begging for attention – Ace didn’t know how to deal with this. With Deuce it had been easy, a heat of the moment thing fuelled by starvation, dehydration, and the very real possibility that they might both die on that spit of land in the middle of the ocean. It hadn’t mattered; it had been in retaliation to Deuce’s grand assumptions that Ace had a life worth living, that somehow _he_ had come from a worse place than _Ace_. He had soon learned – soon understood that there was no one worse off than the literal son of the devil.

But with Marco? In the absence of a fight, of rage or hatred or acid spat to burn and destroy? He had no idea what to do, how to move on from this.

But luckily, Marco at least seemed to have a plan, however bad and misguided as it was.

“Listen, Ace.” Marco’s smile was gone, replaced with that serious, set tone and expression exactly like the pair he had adopted on that night when Ace had finally been convinced, the last hurdle crossed that Thatch, that Deuce, that Pops couldn’t manage. “This doesn’t change anything. No, it doesn’t,” he said firmly, frowning at Ace’s snort, “the sins of the father do not make the son.”

“Bullshit,” Ace hissed without thinking, without stopping himself in time; he didn’t want to argue his case _again_ , was sick of having to prove that yes, he was a despicable piece of filth and no, he did not deserve the love of those who _knew_ , for god’s sake, because they were wrong, wrong, _wrong_ , “if people knew, they would want me dead. Hell, most of the ones who _do_ know are actively trying to encourage the world to do their dirty work for them. Ever wondered why my bounty’s so high?” The flicker in Marco’s expression indicated that yes, he had. “Yeah, so did my crew. So do Thatch and Teach. Some of the higher-up Marines know.”

“So then,” Marco interrupted delicately, as if choosing his words carefully, deliberately, “why did you want me to know? You were afraid I was going to attack you, maybe even try to kill you – your body language said it all, don’t look at me like that – yet you still asked Pops to tell me. Have you asked him to tell Thatch?”

A distressed sound left him as he shoved his fingers through his hair, messing up the damp strands. “No, it was just you,” he sighed, and again abruptly wished that he _hadn’t_ and that Marco would just _leave_ already, “one at a time, y’know? I can’t deal with everyone knowing.”

“Thatch isn’t everyone.”

“I _know_ , I mean—”

“And I thought you were closer to Thatch than you are to me.”

“I _am_.” Did he have to spell it out? For however transparent he apparently was to Marco, this particular message didn’t seem to be getting through at all. Which, he supposed on reflection, was probably a damn good thing. “Fine,” he shot, hoisting his feet back up onto the bed again to cross his legs, “look, you—you’re dependable, right? You’ve got that whole Loving Big Brother shit going on that makes people trust you, people who would otherwise tell someone else using your tactics to fuck right off. So yeah, maybe out of everyone in this crew, I might trust you the most with sensitive information. I don’t know. I’m still not used to being able to trust anyone like this outside of Luffy and Deuce, so forgive me if I’m doing something wrong here, _commander_.”

Marco looked pleased. Too damn fucking pleased with himself for Ace’s liking. What had he said? What was it now? How had this train wreck of a conversation, of a meeting, turned into him spouting off about _trust_ and _friends_ and other nonsense that was usually reserved for the more readily sensitive of people?

“I’m glad we’ve had this chat,” Marco said cheerfully, “and I’m glad that you like me. That makes me happy.”

“I never said I like you,” Ace huffed, turning on the defensive yet again, “and you shouldn’t be happy if I do. I’m _Roger’s_ son. You should want to distance yourself from that kinda mess.”

“On the contrary,” Marco corrected, scratching at his stubbly chin, “I quite enjoy surrounding myself with the weird and wonderful.”

“Wow, thank you _so much_ —”

“And I like you too, Ace. Very much so.” There was something _more_ to Marco’s smile now, something warm and sweet that was distinctly _wrong_ when directed at Ace, of all people. “Finding out that you’re Roger’s kid hasn’t changed anything at all. Being his son doesn’t somehow magically change the fact that you’re kind, caring, and a good friend. Loyal. Strong. Brave. All the qualities that many of us like in a person.”

That weight to Marco’s gaze didn’t dissipate. There was more left unsaid; more that Ace didn’t dare think of, let alone begin to _ache_ for the longer he looked at Marco, focus travelling from eyes, to nose, to mouth… to settle on his full, plush lips that stretched into an inviting smile…

“I can’t believe that it wouldn’t bother you,” Ace murmured, the heat in his cheeks refusing to abate, unable to look Marco in the eye again. “I can’t _let_ myself believe it.”

“Why not?”

_Because then I would get my hopes up._

“You’re allowed to be happy, Ace.” This gained his full attention, silvery-gray snapping up to meet cobalt blue that shone with sincere affection, that regarded him like he was _precious_ or something. “You’re allowed to be free from his shadow.” When Ace didn’t respond beyond his blush deepening, Marco added, “after all, Roger may well be your father, but Edward Newgate is your _Pops_. He’s your parental figure from now on.”

And Ace almost, _almost_ managed to say something coherent back, something beyond a vague gurgle forced from his throat that had inexplicably managed to close up.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm now on [my new Tumblr account](https://chromiwrites.tumblr.com/) if you want to come say hi! I am still open for prompts or a chat, as ever.
> 
> Comments and kudos let me know if I'm doing something right, and I always love your feedback!


	39. Loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding Marco, standing at the graves of his most loved.

Another moment to wait; another lifetime to feel. One more breath - one more second.

In. Out.

_Life_ flowed. Blood oxygenated, rushing through veins and arteries and nudging along capillaries. The mind wandered back, dancing through time on wings of ice and sunlight. Skin prickled under the caress of memories, gentle in touch yet so fiercely easily capable of slicing through to muscle and bone if he so wished to allow.

Lungs filled. Eyes closed. Fingers stretched out to feel the nothingness, to dip into the void and to come back whole where none other could. The ache of loss that hung around his neck like a signpost, signalling that here stood a man who had lost it all, who had seen the end and had stared into the face of death once, twice, thrice… and come back smiling… suddenly lifted.

Toes curled into grass; heels planted deeper into soft earth. Chin tilted, neck arched, and arms spread wide to welcome the universe into his heart.

If he could hold no other, then to hold the force of _everything_ would be a reasonable trade-off, he supposed. Life could surely be merciful enough to allow that of him.

If he could not touch - if he could never entertain the possibility of joining they who slept below the skin of the world - then he would have to find another path.

Back curved. Fingers spread to contain (or to grasp? To welcome?) like a net around all of the horrors that life could ever construct. Cyan and gold bloomed into the night atop the hill overlooking the sea, throwing the tombstones into a stunning, shivering ice bath.

Marco allowed his head to drop forward with his exhale, breath rushing past parted lips to join the breeze fanning through his hair like the tips of fingers belonging to the loved ones he still missed with every waking thought. They, buried right beneath where he stood, were almost, in a terrible way, the lucky ones. They were permitted to sleep always, to rest cradled in beds held tender in the arms of soil and kept safe from the horrors of men. They, those who he dreamed of even when lucid, would never have to feel the pain of their existences again, or to run with the guilt of a thousand, or bear the weight of the seas on shoulders built only for welcoming sons to cry upon.

Peace throughout. Peace that Marco could take from them, if he tried (as he was doing), and fashion into the kind of strength that lay not in armor or haki or powers stolen from the Devil himself.

No one else was going to die. Last time he had been too enraptured to see it - to see the oncoming storm that would drown and destroy.

Last time, Marco had done little more than open the door for Pluto and invite him inside to take the hand of he who had only needed _time_. Where had Saturn been then?

The fire died with the breeze, silencing the moment and grounding Marco back into reality. Back down to turn on his heel and see them again, and to mourn for that split second that he granted.

And he was gone like a sun drawn inexplicably toward a black hole, taking flight on wings of glittering ice back home to where he belonged.

And where they belonged with him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't done a short prompt for a very long time! I've spent most of this month struggling with my work/life balance and snatching moments to write a NSFW piece where possible. As of yesterday I have accepted a promotion into a new specialty that will take me into the community and away from my hospital, and it will also see me have a reduction in hours and thus more time to write and just _live_. It won't be for a while yet, but I'm really looking forward to it, as much as I will miss my current place.
> 
> I'm now on [my new Tumblr account](https://chromiwrites.tumblr.com/) if you want to come say hi! I am still open for prompts or a chat, as ever.
> 
> Comments and kudos let me know if I'm doing something right, and I always love your feedback!


	40. Bike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written for a prompt on Tumblr and so should go in that collection, it just fits in too well with this collection's theme! So here we go, the product of an hour of Absolute Mania one night. I haven't edited it so you get the Full Feral Nonsense that I posted to Tumblr. 
> 
> ... Also, "bike" really is on my list of one word prompts, haha!
> 
> Enjoy!

_“Ah, shit,”_ Marco thought, _“Pops is mad.”_

That was putting it lightly, Marco corrected himself. Even from his point high up in the sky, azure and gold wings swirling like starlight around his human body on his descent, Marco could see that Pops was fucking furious.

And really, yes, okay, he did have every right to be. It had been posted as a group mission, preferably led by one of the commanders who had been in post for a little longer than Marco’s infancy of a mere three weeks, but…

He wasn’t _reckless_ , though – Marco snorted at the insult pressing to the forefront of his mind, feet touching back down to solid wood flooring of his home upon the Moby – no, Marco certainly wasn’t reckless or glory-seeking. All that drove him to take off on his own with a cheery wave over his shoulder had been the ever-present desire he held: make his Pops proud. And, even more so, to make his Pops know with no uncertainty that he had been _right_ to appoint Marco as the first division’s commander.

All taken into consideration, Marco rather thought that he was quite right to have gone alone.

Pops, however, did not.

“Everything’s fine!” Marco called to Whitebeard, arms shimmering bright for a second longer before dissolving back into human arms, “no casualties! All’s good! I wrapped up everything and promised I’d go visit for a catch-up again in a couple of weeks.”

Sadly, Whitebeard didn’t look amused. Nor did he look like he was in any way pleased to hear that the villagers off the coast of that sandy-beached island that they all enjoyed visiting had been successfully liberated. Just _how_ one singular madman had managed to overrule their mayor and take power for himself had been quite beyond the crew; Marco, however, now knew exactly how that man’s Devil Fruit had affected everyone he made eye contact with. Except, of course, Marco himself.

But Pops didn’t say anything. Vast and looming, sitting deep in his throne of a chair and powerful arms crossed tight over his immense chest, Whitebeard did not appear in any way to take comfort in a mission perfectly pulled off. In fact, he looked very much like those massive arms of his weren’t going to unfold for a substantial amount of time.

“The guy had a fruit power that let him plant thoughts into peoples’ minds,” Marco rushed his explanation, looking around for support from his fellow crewmates and finding none. Not even Thatch came forward to welcome him back, watching the show from where he had first spotted Marco soaring back on diamond-strewn wings under the midday sun. “That’s how he got into power and made them all act so weirdly. But,” he puffed out his chest, trying not to look _too_ smug, “he didn’t have any hold over _me_. He soon left when I kicked his teeth in. Guess it’s the phoenix power that stopped him.”

But again, Pops refused to speak, only staring down at his now slightly worried son. Well, shit. Marco had finally gone and got him _really_ mad, hadn’t he?

“Nothing _happened,_ ” Marco sighed, gesturing broadly, “I’m back, aren’t I? Back in one piece? I didn’t even have to fight anyone – well, unless you count me beating the crap out of the guy when he tried to pull a gun on one of the maids—”

Whitebeard’s nostrils flared with anger, a hard sigh whistling through his nose. Ah, he didn’t like that detail, Marco realised too late. Best not mention how the man had actually managed to stab Marco in the abdomen before flailing in a panic in response to Marco’s wholly indifferent response of, “oh, wow, the handle of your knife’s _really_ nice.”

“That,” Pops’ voice boomed out across the deck, despite how he hadn’t raised it, “is not the point, Marco.” Marco flinched at the use of his name, something only reserved for when Whitebeard was _pissed_. “Luckily for you, things ran in your favor this time. I asked that a party go for safety reasons in the face of the unknown. You have flouted that.” When Marco merely shifted his weight from one foot to the other and dropped his gaze to the floor, Pops added, “do you disagree with erring on the side of caution?”

A little, yes. Marco was young, bold, brave, and ridiculously ready to dive headfirst into the thick of any fight, any situation, thanks to his relaxed approach to life and his incredible powers. Pops _knew_ this.

“Look,” Marco said, desperation beginning to edge into his tone – when would Pops stop looking at him all disappointed like that? “Pops, don’t worry, I’ve sorted it. I won’t do it again, promise. And besides, _danger_ is my middle name,” he grinned, hands on hips and stepping closer with something of a swagger, false confidence radiating dense from him. “I love a challenge, and besides, if anything _had_ happened, then—”

“No it’s not,” Thatch’s laughter interrupted Marco’s (terrible) attempt at calming Pops’ parental worries, “if anything, your middle name’s _the local bike_ , mate.”

Fucking Thatch and his stupid big mouth.

Fucking Thatch and his disregard for Pops’ image of his sons! That was the last thing that Marco could _ever_ want Pops to think of him! Whitebeard’s own foray into the romantic quite aside, no young man should ever have his reputation yelled about in front of his father. Ever.

Heat ignited his cheeks as his feet transformed without warning, instinct taking over and the urge to severely maim broke through all other coherent thoughts. Thatch, Marco noticed with significant glee, suddenly looked an awful lot less confident in his insult now that he faced the prospect of being gouged within the next ten seconds.

But luckily for Thatch and his dumb interjection, Pops shifted in his seat and broke the bubble of anger that had surrounded him.

“Bike?” He repeated, looking between his two sons curiously, his disapproval for Marco’s actions seemingly temporarily forgotten. “What an odd thing to call someone. Is it slang for something?”

Marco couldn’t say anything. Or at least nothing appropriate for a man of 22 to say to his adored adopted father. How in the name of hell was he supposed to own up and say, “ah yes, Thatch is referencing to my habit of fucking with at least three different people on every island we stop at. You may be under the impression that I just enjoy bar crawling away from the crew, but the truth is I’m just a dirty great big slut who will ride anything.”

Marco actually choked at the mere thought of coming _that_ clean.

Thatch, however, did not seem to think that their father shouldn’t know certain intimate things about one of his closest sons.

“Didn’t you know?” Thatch laughed, wandering over closer to smirk horribly at Marco, “c’mon, you _must_ have heard at least one idiot in this crew refer to Marco as a bike before.”

He hadn’t – the answer was plain on Whitebeard’s face, an eyebrow raising expectantly into an arch. Only… only much to Marco’s intense, utter horror, comprehension seemed to be dawning on Pops’ face the longer the silence spanned, giving him time to run through any and all feasible reasons as to why anyone would ever be called _a bike_.

So Marco, panic-stricken, suddenly found his white lying skills and donned his ability to dish out dishonesty for the sake of protecting his dignity.

“He’s referring to how I let people ride me,” Marco said quickly, “ _as a phoenix,_ ” he snapped loudly over Thatch’s splutter, “how I give rides to people sometimes. You’ve seen me, Pops, up in the sky with a person or two on my back, doing loops and flips and whatever—”

“Oh, yeah,” Thatch choked on his own laughter, “yeah, Pops, Marco’s particularly popular on islands we visit – poor dude’s just inundated with all sorts of people wanting to take him for a spin—”

“On my back,” Marco was sweating all of a sudden, frantic, “as a bird. A _bird_ —”

“Yeah, on your back all right,” Thatch snorted.

A deep frown creased Pops’ brow together as he looked from son to son. It was do or die, the moment of reckoning. Would he believe them? If Marco had been in his boat-like boots, he was fairly sure that he wouldn’t believe a single word out of their mouths. However—

“Son,” Whitebeard sighed, and, to Marco’s complete astonishment, suddenly looked forlorn and miserable, “I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned this to you, but I do lament my size on occasion. Those rides you give look to be incredible fun.” He sighed again, whole body heaving with the effort. “What I wouldn’t give to be able to ride you too.”

Thatch, for lack of a better fitting term, lost his fucking shit. Marco, in contrast, simply wanted to die on the spot.

At least Pops wasn’t outraged with him anymore. Silver linings and all that.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm now on [my new Tumblr account](https://chromiwrites.tumblr.com/) if you want to come say hi! I am still open for prompts or a chat, as ever.
> 
> Comments and kudos let me know if I'm doing something right, and I always love your feedback!


End file.
